


Silver and Gold

by the_consulting_linguist (xASx)



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternative Apha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dwarf/Elf Relationship(s), Dwarf/Hobbit Relationship(s), Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Mpreg, Love, M/M, Mpreg, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Relationship(s), Platonic Relationships, Platonic Soulmates, Rating May Change, Romantic Relationship(s), Romantic Soulmates, Undecided Relationship(s), War, inspired by omegaverse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-10-28 20:52:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10839228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xASx/pseuds/the_consulting_linguist
Summary: ‘You cannot break the Bond.No matter what you do.You cannot control it, you cannot defeat it.Once it happens, it has altered you forever.You cannot break the Bond’The Elven King of silver and the Dwarven Prince of gold both knew. And they both broke, for their bond wouldn’t.Separated like the Sun and the Moon, drawing helpless circles in the sky. For how can the Moon ever truly approach past the Sun’s scorching heat?Until war is upon them.What can ever be salvaged from the ashen ruins of a dragon’s wrath?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! ^-^  
> So, this fic is a soulmate AU situated within the broader universe of Tokien’s work. I was inspired by Omega!verse (there are many different versions out there for you to browse), but changed it quite a lot into a sort of original thingie. So, my version of soulmates was created solely for this fic, is loosely based on the main idea of Omega!verse, and draws upon the mythology of Middle Earth to explain how it works (I tried to stick to the canon elements of the Tolkien universe as much as I could, but do expect some elements to diverge). And of course, I do NOT claim to own the characters/borrowed other elements (e.g. names of creatures/places, etc) belonging to the canon (books) and/or films by Peter Jackson. All credit to J.R.R. Tolkien's work and the films for those.  
> I will be explaining more in the notes of each chapter as we go along, describe the mythology bits I used, and post some sources for you people. Also, if you find any Elvish or Dwarvish in the text, it will also be translated in the ending notes of each chapter.  
> A warm hug and thank you to my beloved beta in everything, xSRx, for helping me draft this world-within-the-Tolkien-world.  
> I plan on updating this story every weekend, but will let you know if there are changes in the schedule. So, I hope you enjoy this and that you’ll stick around!  
> -xALx

 

* * *

 

The bellow of a stag tore through the night. Shivers, like sparks, raced down his spine and he pulled himself to sit up, the cage of ribs around his heart tightening. For a moment the world was quiet, only the soft night’s breeze making the drapes of his windows quiver. Gaze transfixed onto them, he retreated into himself; just felt his breaths. The coldness slowly leaving his lungs. For a moment, he could believe it was a dream.

“My King” Ice-grey eyes sharpened on his guard’s form. More footsteps could be heard now, echoing down the corridor.

Without a word, he waved the guard away. Only when he was gone did he bring his feet to reluctantly touch the marble floor. On legs trembling like a fawn’s he stood, needing a hand against the wall to steady himself. The cascade of long, flaxen hair, dull in the absence of light, fell over his shoulders as he leaned forward, curling into himself, free hand over his stomach.

Every day his vitality was sapped from him even more, like a fallen leaf’s colour. Every day since he was denied his heart’s completion. Never would he admit it, how difficult it was to gather what remained of him and will it into a single piece.

The commotion in the corridor intensified, and muffled words, murmured questions, and barked commands were added to the symphony of restlessness that had swept over his palace. They had all heard of the rumours of the quest. Some did not believe it to be true, some dismissed it with a huff or a chuckle. Doomed to fail, they said, and his fingers would only curl harder around his wineglass as he agreed. But he knew. It never would have been a lie. Everything else coming from this man could have been. Except for this. And, somehow, even though he knew he should have been prepared, he was not expecting to feel this way.

 With an intake of breath, he straightened his back, and took a step forward decidedly. His arm remained coiled around his middle, clutching viciously at his skin. The last thing he would do would be to allow that moron to mock him again.

He ploughed through his wardrobe with his anger renewed, yanking on his clothes with harsh precision, despite the feeling that his muscles were turning into liquid. Sage green and flame were the colours he chose, patterned with silver thread. The rings on his fingers, the brooch clasping his long, formal robe. And last was the crown of twigs and autumn leaves upon his head. The King closed his eyes when he set it in place, allowing its weight to settle on his skull. There was no need for a mirror. He had been doing this for more than a thousand years. For far too long.

Step loud and sure he made his way to his hall, two guards flanking him without prompt of a command. The small procession headed to the throne room promptly, the guards always two steps behind their King. They could not help but notice he had not taken his sword with him.

Two more guards ahead bowed upon seeing them, hitting the bottom of their spears to the stone floor once in greeting. Then they single-handedly, and without turning their back to the King, pushed the double, wooden door they were guarding inwards. The wood creaked in resistance and it scraped against the floor heavily before giving way, revealing the shape of an elaborate arch above their heads.

 

The King quickened his pace, and his guards did not hurry to follow. He was emitting so much arrogant confidence that he would not have tolerated anyone at his heels. Whatever was about to happen, it would not be peaceful, their almost imperceptible nods to each other murmured.

Dawn might soon begin to cast its light, but here, deep within rock and tree, it was dark still. The vast, cavernous hall, spider-webbed in the maze of multiply levelled corridors lay before them, and the mood of the King turned it into a monster awaiting to stir.

The Elven King took his place upon his throne of antlers, leaning back and crossing his legs, a smirk haunting his lips. _Not again_. _Not ever again_. His guards took place at the base of the corridor leading up to him, unrecognisable and menacing in their dark panoply of metal and leather.

The wait did not last long. Different sounds and smells entered the hall; the musk of the forest and dew, the familiar steps of armoured Elven scouts and hunters, and the heavier, hobbling step of invaders. Thranduil’s fair head tilted to the left in amusement. This is not who he wished to talk to.

He could not hear him yet, but his heart’s lurches every now and then assured him of his presence. Of course, he was there, unable to resist the urge to taunt him, as always. But he would not be brought forth yet. Not yet.  The Dwarves were at the plateau at the base of his throne now, and the Elven King lowered his gaze to them, nose scrunching up. Thoroughly caked in mud, and covered in cobwebs and torn clothes, they surely must have seen better days, even if they were Dwarves.

Two of them, one the ghost of the other in appearance, met his eyes. One was glaring, the other was more collected. Cunning. Like a scheming fox.

“I was told you were found trespassing in my forest”, he let his voice unravel in its echoing low tones.

The taller Dwarf of the two at the front, the glaring one, massive for a Dwarf and covered in crude tattoos, clenched his fists. But the one next to him, white where the other was dark-haired, and shorter, took a small step forward and bowed gracefully, with no obvious mockery in his stance. “My Lord Thranduil, allow me. I am named Balin, son of Fundin, and wish to speak on behalf of this company”, he said before straightening and smoothing his white beard.

“Speak then, Dwarf” replied the Elven King, leaning forward in his throne even if he did not bother to hide his disinterest.

“We were not trespassing. We had to take the path of your forest for we were being hunted”.

“But you were not found on the path”. Thranduil’s left eyebrow arched poignantly.

“And for that we apologise, my Lord, but we meant no harm. We were exhausted, and battle-weary, and got lost along the way”.

 “You still had no permission to be on my land. Or to hunt my creatures with bow and arrow”.

At that the old Dwarf’s eyes widened, and it took him a moment to speak.

“If this did happen, it was only as we were starving, Lord Thranduil”.

“Oh. I see. How very convenient”

The younger Dwarf of the two clenched his teeth at Thranduil’s mock sympathy.

“Were we brought here for you to taunt us?”, he growled.

Thranduil spared a disgusted glance towards him before smiling briefly. And then allowed his eyes to glint dangerously.

“Your explanations are not as boisterous as you try to appear”. The Elven King’s voice was cold and louder. “And you are not the leader of this company”. It was not a question, but it made the older Dwarf cringe with the dismissal in Thranduil’s voice. “Starving or not, you are trespassers on my land. Until I decide how best to get rid of you, you shall journey to my dungeons”. Confused and bewildered glances were exchanged among the company. “And stay there”, he added with a playful, condescending smirk. A mumble of protest had started to rise among the company at his feet, but the guards were already upon them, dragging them away.

“Traitor!” cried the tattooed one among the hustle. Thranduil ignored him and turned to look ahead once more. It was quiet again, but his stomach was tied into a knot in anticipation and disgust and terror.

“Thranduil!”

The baritone voice boomed louder than his ever could, bouncing off the cavern walls in a wave-like echo that suffocated him.

He had to almost physically fight the urge to fumble for his heart with a trembling hand. _Breathe_.

“How dare you mistreat my people!”

He heard, for he did not yet stand to look, the dull thud of fighting bodies and a muffled groan, and then outraged steps heading his way. The Dwarf was breathing so hard he could _feel_ it, even at such a distance. _As he could feel the scent wafting from his skin, the iron and the ash and the sweat. The pull he had been struggling to suppress for centuries, the yearning, the lust._ _The need._

“Answer me!”

_It was futile. All could be learned but this, how to sever what has become a part of you._

His fallen guards, those who had fought to keep the Dwarf in place and had failed, were scurrying to their feet and after the mad-driven Dwarf. It was no secret among them since dawn that the King was not carrying his sword.

“I said answer me, traitor!”

The voice was here now, on the plateau of his throne. Heart threatening to break through his chest or fly through his mouth, Thranduil slowly turned his head to glance at the Dwarven Prince that had once shattered his heart to pieces. _That still was breaking him._

“Thorin”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About the artwork at the beginning: I had saved it on my phone a long while ago, and have not yet been able to spot the artist online. All credits to the artist. No copyright infringement intended.  
> Please if someone finds who it belongs to let me know so I can give them credit properly! Thank you!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shortly before the Battle of Azanulbizar, TA 2799. 
> 
> The Elven King seeks the guidance of an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Chapter 2 is ready earlier than expected!  
> There will be lots of going back and forth in the storyline generally, so... be prepared for some confusion and more angst.  
> Enjoy ^^ 
> 
> Elvish Translations:  
> Mae g'ovannen = (you are) well met  
> An ngell nîn = please (literally 'for my joy')  
> mellon nîn = my dear/my friend 
> 
> And lastly 'ellon' = male Elf

 “My Lord Elrond” A quiet voice, like the flow of a stream in the spring.

Elrond’s grip on the parapet of his white-marbled balcony loosened and he rose his head, posture straightening and softening as he turned around to look upon one of the most familiar sights remaining for him in Middle-Earth. One which he saw most rarely.

The Elven King stood in the centre of his study. Hands behind his back, the ghost of a playful grin on his lips. His grey eyes reflected the light as they always did, but with less strength than they once had. The ellon’s clothes were a simple riding outfit, boots stained with mud. There was a scratch across his cheek, dark as a plum’s flesh against his pale skin. 

“Mae g'ovannen, Thranduil Oropherion!”, Elrond Half-elven strode to him with a smile softening his thin lips. “My friend”, he greeted, enveloping Thranduil in a tight embrace that the other Elf returned without hesitation.

“It is not often that you seek my company in Rivendell”, Elrond said, taking a step back. “You always say you prefer the wine and merrymaking of your halls. We are too solemn for you”.  There were much more pressing issues to ask about, but Elrond sensed a warning in Thranduil’s gaze, and so stuck to the pleasantries instead.

Thranduil reflected the teasing half-smile he saw in his old friend’s face. “Not just for me...”. His gaze fell to his chest. “I need to speak with you. Alone”.

Elrond’s eyes narrowed. Elves of lower rank were coming and going in the room behind them, an elegant flurry of golden, scarlet, and purple velvet as they hurried about, leaving bowls of fresh fruit and goblets of crystal white wine for them quietly. The Elven King’s visit had been unexpected, and this time, there was no feast to honour his presence. Thranduil had come only with a small guard, and expected to leave again at dawn. He’d been tight-lipped, eyebrows knitted together, until he was led to Lord Elrond’s quarters. 

“Thank you”, said Elrond, turning from him to face the serving Elves. Thranduil mimicked him. “You may go now. We shall not be needing anything else”. Looking at him, they all bowed their heads gently and took their leave. All save for one. Thin and doe-faced, he held his hands folded in front of him, lean fingers tangled together. He lowered his head more than the others and waited until they were gone, before his eyes, the soft golden brown of honey, rose to Elrond’s dark ones.

“Should I leave too, my Lord?”

Thranduil observed them both quietly as he pretended to inspect the contents of his goblet.

“An ngell nîn, Lindir”. The slender Elf wavered and Elrond’s voice took a warmer tone, protective, almost. “Do not be troubled. I am quite safe”.

“My lords…”, the soft-spoken ellon said in a reverent whisper before taking his leave. Elrond did not turn to Thranduil until the door was closed behind him. And when he did, he found an arched eyebrow and a bemused expression cloaking something else entirely.

“You have changed, my Lord Elrond…”, murmured Thranduil thoughtfully and made himself comfortable on a high-backed chair.

Elrond cleared his throat. “I thought you said you wished to speak with me”, he reminded the other Elf with a frown, sitting opposite him. His cheeks had turned an interesting colour, Thranduil decided.

“I did. But I can speak with you about that too, can I not?”, grinned the Elven King over the rim of his goblet.

“I believe the first question to be addressed here should be what happened to you”, said Elrond quickly, passing a hand over his cheek, where the scratch would be on his friend’s face.

 “We were attacked on the road. Rogue Orcs. Nothing too difficult to deal with”, Thranduil brushed Elrond’s worry off with a dismissive wave of his hand.  Elrond ignored him, as he often did, and got up, diving into the numerous cupboards of his study. “Do start telling me why you are here, Oropherion”, he called among the clatter he was making. Thranduil winced as Elrond’s movements caused his glass vials to clang against each other, and looked into what remained of his wine.

“I believe you have heard the rumours”, he started reluctantly.

There was a momentary pause and then the soft sounds of liquid being stirred and of leaves being gently crushed and cut. “About the reclaiming of Moria by the Dwarves of Erebor? Yes…”, Elrond’s voice was heard among the fragile rustle of old parchment. “It is a suicidal mission, I believe. The mines have been abandoned for far too long to be uninhabited by dark forces. Not that they ever were…” His voice now came closer, holding a handful of vials and cloths which he deposited on the table nearest to Thranduil’s chair. “I understand Thror’s need for a kingdom. But this decision is far from wise”. The Half-elven leaned over him and Thranduil obeyed in turning his head so that his old friend could examine the wound on his cheek.

“Is this why you came to see me? To discuss the military affairs of the Dwarves?”, the other Elf asked as he carefully held Thranduil’s chin with two fingers and guided him to turn a bit more towards the light. “Arrow wound. You were very lucky with this one”, he murmured, tracing a finger along the length of the wound’s edge, barely touching the skin. “Not poisoned… But we better take precautions just in case…”

“Elrond….”, whined Thranduil in protest.

“So, what do you want to talk about?”. The Elven King could not see Elrond’s expression, for he was leaning over the damaged side of his face. Perhaps it was better this way.

“Do you… remember… that old story we were taught?”

“Which one?”, came the swift reply, as Elrond started dabbing the wound with a soft cloth soaked in cold water. Thranduil hissed softly.

“The journey to Aman, the wakening of Men, the music of the Ainur?”, suggested Elrond as he re-examined the, now cleaned up, wound.

“N-no. The one about the Sun… The Sun and the Moon”. Elrond paused and let go of his friend’s face.

“What about it?”, he said slowly.

“Would you… would you narrate it again? For me?” Thranduil’s voice broke, and he held his breath in fear.

“I don’t understand”. Elrond took a step sideways to stand in front of him. Their gazes locked quietly. Elrond’s eyebrows knitted together in suspicion.

“Are you…?”

“Please…”. The dark eyes softened under the begging sorrow of the grey ones.

“Oh, _mellon nîn_ …”, Elrond sighed sadly, as he took his previous place again. Thranduil closed his eyes, and let Elrond gently apply the healing herbs and paste on his wound as his rumbling low voice spoke in lulling Sindarin.

_It was fated in the desire of the Valar that Arien and Tilion guide the lights in the skies above Arda the pain and the suffering of both. Arien burned as fire, golden as the dawn as she guarded and drove the Sun. Tilion shone silver blue and quiet as the water at night, for he protected and guided the Moon. Tilion loved Arien even before she shone, and seven times did he wait for her in his reckless journey around the world. Yet nothing do the Valar give without a cost, nothing do they give freely with no struggle. For this is the way of this world until its end, for without a journey there can be no land of Aman. So Tilion tried to reach Arien, but her fire scorched him. They chase across the skies in hope and pain, for the moments when they can shed their light to the world together. And so it has been. And so it will be until the end._

Thranduil’s eyelids flickered. His wound did not sting anymore, and Elrond was sitting opposite him again, gaze lost in the sunset as he recited the ancient verse respectfully, translating it from Quenya as he spoke from memory alone.

_Yet nothing is on earth unlike it is among the Valar. For the souls of the creatures Iluvatar so much resemble those of the Sun and the Moon in heart. Tilion and Arien in countless forms live between us, mortals and immortals alike, circling as the Moon and the Sun through their years until they cast eyes upon each other once again. For some the moment never comes, for some it will not come until much too late. And for all whose heart has not been filled, no one can say who they’ll be; the scorching Sun, or the mercurial Moon. The fire or the water, the gold or the silver. Should fate stand by their side, they shall find when half their soul seeks or finds them. And through their Bond they’ll live, transformed now each as each should be, one the scorching Sun, one the soothing Moon of the tides; to complete and to protect, to complete and to nurture. Never again to be alone…_

“The Moon loves and waits… The Sun protects and rules…”

Elrond’s face, darkened by the lines that creased his eyes, met that of the Elven King. “This is what is drawn from the myth. It is exaggeration, of course. It never is as simple as this”, he murmured wearily.

“I know. I know now”

Elrond averted his eyes, lips pursed into a line of sorrow. How could he let a Sunless one sense his pity and pain, when he was not without his Moon?

“Elrond. Can the Bond be broken?”

Thranduil felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach when the Half-elven’s form stiffened.

“Never”, he breathed.

“But there has to be a way”, Thranduil pressed weakly.

“Once you have found the other half of your Soul, your One, and you transform with them, there is no going back”.

“What if… What if they don’t… exist… anymore?”

Elrond sighed and got up, motioning for Thranduil to follow. Night had almost completed its descent as they stepped out onto the balcony. Rivendell’s quiet song, of the rivers and waterfalls, the night-birds and cicadas, carried onto the breeze.

“You can know who is who still, can you not?”, Elrond asked, leaning over the parapet with his hands folded across his chest.

“I can see it. I can feel it”, murmured Thranduil as he settled close to him. He’d not missed the golden aura around the ellon. The flame in his heart. Or the peaceful silver youth who’d been so reluctant to leave his side.

“Then you can know… And you can substitute what you have lost, perhaps. If you try enough, if you search enough. But there is no other way. Once the Bond has formed, it has changed you forever”.

The Elven King let his eyes, only one of them able to see, wander on the landscape ahead of him, toward the Northeast. To where was no more. Elrond would not lie to him. For as long as they’d known each other, Elrond sought to save him from pain. And for once, he couldn’t.

An owl hooted somewhere nearby, as he let his mind carry him away, back to what had once been. To a sturdier, darker room, open to the Mountain’s cold. To the arms of one he longed to hold, of the one he knew now he needed. There was a caress on his face, a warm breath near his ear, a soft kiss on his jaw. _‘Are you sure of this?’_. Muscled arms clutching him tighter, a dark mane against his neck, the almost imperceptible motion of a nod. _‘Look at me. Please… Do you want this?’._ Eyes of sapphire and sea answered him. The proud, arrogant smile of youth. _‘Do not forget… You cannot break the Bond. No matter what you do. You cannot control it, you cannot defeat it. Once it happens, it has altered you forever. You cannot break the Bond’_. Kisses were peppered over his sternum. He shivered. ‘ _Please…_ ’ A palm cupping his face soothingly. _‘I do not care. I want this. You cannot scare me away now’_. A lopsided grin, and more kisses all over him, scorching his skin. A hand in his hair, pulling him closer clumsily, tickling the back of his neck, a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss that did not go as planned. _‘Why… why are you laughing?’_ His lover sounded hurt over his innocent amusement. And then they were tumbling in the sheets, trying to stifle their laughter lest someone might hear as they pretended to fight the other away and then wrapped him close.

A little elfling’s sobs echoed from a pavilion close by; the soothing lullabies of a father followed. He did not see Elrond turn to look at him. His head was lowered and his arms were rested around his middle, tight.   

* * *

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the Arien/Tilion story is part of Tolkien's mythology. My creation of soulmates based on it is not :P  
> If anyone is confused how this works, hang on in there, you'll have a pretty good picture soon, and the complete one as the fic progresses. I guess that any of you reading knowing what Omega!verse is have some more clues as to where I am taking this, but let's see ^^ 
> 
> Here are some links for you to delve further if you wish:  
> http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Tilion  
> http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Moon  
> http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Sun  
> http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Arien
> 
> All Elvish translations in this chapter are from:  
> http://www.arwen-undomiel.com/elvish/phrases.html
> 
> Artwork at the end: no copyright infringement intended. Compositing by Helena Shin.
> 
> And just if you are interested to know, I use to listen to music as I write to help me find the mood of each scene. For this one, it was Aniron, by Enya ^^


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Forest and the Mountain clash after more than a century apart...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 is here, at last!  
> It troubled me a bit, I must admit. Because, hint hint, a huuuuge portion of the dialogue here will shine crystal clear once you learn the story of their past. So, enjoy trying to figure out what on middle-earth has really happened and what they really mean until then! (no no no, I am not that much of a bad person, really... But angst is angst, hehe! Sorry! :P)  
> By the way, I'd appreciate it wholeheartedly if you guys could take some of your time to comment! I like to feel I am communicating directly with my audience ^^

“Thorin”.

It was barely a whisper, a faint gasp for air. Air which was denied to him. Swallowing hard, Thranduil fought off the assaults of Thorin’s every speck of being.

“Will you not answer me?”, raged the other in a quieter voice, the rumble before the earthquake’s passage. The cavern reverberated in reply. Thranduil’s garments were now too tight, the air too heavy. Shifting his head to tilt to the left, it was only his crown’s weight on his head that was steady, its edges brushing his cheekbones. It was what had not been there to protect him the last time.

His fingers uncurled from a fist, rings glinting faintly as he lay it elegantly upon the armrest of his throne.

“I was not expecting such an untimely visit, crownless heir of Durin”. A smirk worked its way onto his lips.

Flaming sapphire eyes locked into his. The Elven King and tipped his head in indifferent acknowledgement. The Dwarf’s jaw muscles worked furiously, but before another word could leave his lips, Thranduil waved a hand to cut him off.

“Hard as I may try, I cannot find any reason for your arrogance. You, and the company you lead, were caught trespassing. Your companions’ explanations were… unconvincing. Perhaps you could explain better”.

 “We were being hunted and sought the refuge of your forest. Starving, wounded. With spiders on our heels”.

The Dwarf’s voice was steady as his gaze. Thranduil recognised that what was being said was true. But it was not the entirety of the truth. He had heard of the quest. Much as Thorin may have fought for secrecy, word gets around. Word always gets around. And this time, it also came with a warning in the Half-elven’s hand.

“Fair enough… But answer me this. Why were you hunted and by whom? So far away from Ered Luin... And so few of you -and a particularly weird assortment of you, that is. This is no diplomatic mission, or royal escort…” He let his words drip slowly as honey, feigning ignorance.

“I am not obligated to disclose my business with you. You asked the reason for our trespassing. Your authority ends on the borders of your forest”.

“Does it?”, Thranduil’s eyebrow arched and his smirk widened into a grin. “Yet without further explanations, your cause for entering my lands without permission has no solid foundations, wouldn’t you say? A rogue company of Dwarves, so far from home, fully armoured and with no apparent allegiance…”

Thranduil enjoyed how Thorin’s fists clenched as he no doubt attempted to construct some semblance of excuse.

“Has the hospitality of your Kingdom sunk so low that you would unjustly doubt and accuse weary travellers?”, came the sharp retaliation. Thranduil might as well have expected it.

“When the intentions of those around us grow dark, so does our tolerance diminish”, the Elven King replied smoothly, raising at last.

His legs shook, though not visibly, and his head spun. If he were to look and truly see, he knew what he’d find there, in Thorin’s form. The scorching, golden aura, a thin veil of light, ever in motion, shimmering softly around the shape of the Dwarf.

“Speak clearly”, warned Thorin and took a step back, so that he may meet the Elf’s gaze without straining his neck from looking so far above the level of his eyes.

“It is not I whose motives are disclosed…”

“What are you referring to? Stop toying with me”

Thranduil bit the inside of his cheek in bitter joy. Thorin’s brow was furrowed, and his stance had turned defensive, a wolf defending his spoils. His secret was giving him away.

“Do you suppose your journey would go unnoticed?”, almost cooed the Elf, relishing the feeling of having the upper hand again. “I have been… informed of your plans”

Thorin’s eyes widened imperceptibly, and Thranduil drank in the Dwarf’s vulnerability greedily. It stabilised his limbs and woke his bloodthirst. He wanted to take more from the creature in front of him.

“The Quest… Durin’s Day… The key… You thought it was so clever of you, was it not?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about”, Thorin breathed hoarsely.

“No? Then let us try again”, he took a slow step down the stairs leading to his throne. His legs kept him up, almost in fashion of his old, nimble self. With wild joy he kept on, stopping only on the last step, hands behind his back in mockery of a neutral stance. This was one thing he knew how to do, and this was one provocation allowing him to do it safely. Thorin’s quest was secure enough ground to corner him against.

“The mountain…. The gold… The danger lurking among the ruins…”, he continued, teasing Thorin further in an attempt to make him speak. He did not mind if he would have to force every word out of his lips.

“Stop vexing me with nonsense!”, erupted the other, jabbing an accusatory finger at him. He had taken the bait quickly enough, after all. “I only ask for safe passage through your forest for me and my company. There is nothing else that concerns you in my decisions”.

 “I believe that your decision at hand concerns the whole of Middle Earth”. Thranduil took the last step down. Thorin adjusted his gaze to meet his eyes once more.

“Erebor is my right by birth!”

 “No. Rule of your people is your right by birth”, Thranduil retorted sharply. “Though I will not deny how your mission takes on ostensibly heroic proportions” The Elven King started pacing in a lazy semicircle around Thorin, sarcasm thick in his voice. “Some would imagine a noble quest it as hand. A quest to reclaim a homeland and slay a dragon”.

The Dwarf stayed put stubbornly, keeping his back turned, refusing to admit the threat that now was the Elven King.

“I myself suspect a more prosaic motive”.

The Elf watched as the air was punched out of Thorin’s lungs.

“You have found a way in”

After a small pause of enjoying the contortions of denial on Thorin’s face, he walked to face him once more.

“You seek that which would bestow upon you the right to rule. The King’s jewel. The Arkenstone”. And with that he secured his position directly below his throne, shoulders squared and head held high. “It is precious to you beyond measure…”

The Dwarf’s eyes, once the hue of sapphire under flame, darkened as a storm at sea. Something seemed to waver inside them. Thranduil momentarily faltered.

“I understand that”, he eventually decided somewhat akwardly, not wanting to let the silence wear down on them.

Thorin’s glinting orbs turned charcoal black. “You?”, he scoffed. “How could _you_ understand?”

It caught Thranduil by surprise with its vehemence, caused a feeling of danger to build up in his stomach. “There are gems in the mountain that I, too, desire”, he replied simply, scrutinising the Dwarf’s face as his instincts of flight threatened to surge in his mind.

“Of course… The white gems of Lasgalen”, Thorin sneered, a crooked grin haunting his features. “So, I presume you seek a favour?”

Thranduil blinked. This was not what he sought at all. But the words flew out of his mouth nonetheless. “One King to another”.

Thorin’s grin broadened. “ _When have you ever honoured your word_?”.

It came as a whisper, as breathy as the harshness of its words. It had been Thranduil’s turn to avoid taking the bait, and he had missed the plan and his chance. Now he could only shiver as Thorin’s next words drove home with an intensity he could not have prepared for. “ _You lack of all honour!_ ”. Transfixed, he watched as it was Thorin’s turn to move; move and march toward him imperiously. “We came to you once. Starving. Homeless. Seeking your help. But your turned your back”. The verdict went on, gaining in momentum. “You turned away from the suffering of my people, and the inferno that destroyed us!”

“Our alliance was over”, managed Thranduil as Thorin’s last syllables bounced off the cavern’s earthen insides.

“ _Our_ alliance was not!”

The Dwarf had stopped four steps away from him. He needn’t have. Blows would have been more welcome.

“I have seen how you treat your… _friends_. You made a promise”

“Promises are made to be broken”, Thranduil said faintly, voice only just audible. His legs were wobbly again, reeds in the wind, heart quivering in his chest, a heart that he wished would just stop-

“ _This one was not_ ”, Thorin growled.

It did stop then. It stopped as the memories came flooding his mind, disabling his defences, consuming him. It stopped only for a moment. Blood was rushing to his ears, and all he could discern in sound were his own breaths; shallow and ragged. Thorin’s aura, the one he had fought so hard to push away, was claiming him, curling in a spiral around him, knocking down any walls of protection he’d risen as if it was parchment, not stone will, forged over years of torment. He could feel his own aura responding despite his despair. Responding as a weakling new-born to its mother’s call, as the flesh parts under the sword’s steel, as the tree bends to the wind’s breath. The silver and the gold. They were close enough to imagine feeling Thorin’s breaths against his skin, close enough that if he reached out he could touch him. It would be so easy to give in, so simple…

They were staring at each other, one with fervour, one with the storm in his eyes. A storm that, as much as Thranduil tried, could not break past, for it also woke the storm in him. Yet something else lurked there too, usurping what one had been his; and it did not come from Thorin.

A moment too late he felt the full force of what was happening to him. Their auras were not entwining. They were suffocating him. Panic rose in his throat, threatening to strangle him. Thorin had steered him where he wished not to tread, where he would drown; he had cornered and subdued him. And now the Elf would have to claw his way out.

“Did I give no warning?”, he rasped. “I warned your grandfather of what his greed would summon”.

Thorin refused to move, and Thranduil’s heart was almost fibrillating in terror.

“No”

“But he would not listen”.

“Stop evading, you coward”.

His eyes were losing focus. Mouth opening and closing a few times, no word rising to his lips. The silence only seemed to further Thorin’s wrath.

“ _Face me, you_ -“

“You are just like him”. Despair provided.  

At that the Dwarven Prince’s eyes emptied of all other emotions except one. Denial. It lasted merely a moment, treacherously fast but enough to see. The death-grip around Thranduil loosened. Swallowing down a groan of pain the Elven King pushed his way forward and made for the steps to his throne.

The spell broke, but this time Thorin did not make to approach him again. “I am not my grandfather”. His voice had lost its certainty, but had grown bitter. Thranduil was caught by it on the second step. It was too laborious to force his muscles to move. “Are you not?”, he bit back further, breaths a little too audible, much too fast. With fright, he remembered the consequences of pressing himself so hard; the glamour on his skin was fading, searing him as it did so. If it slipped now, he could not repair it on his own. Thorin’s eyes twitched. He was wincing. Thranduil lashed out again with what strength remained in him.  

“Then stay here if you will, and rot!  A hundred years is a mere blink in the life of an Elf”.

On cue, his guards closed in on Thorin, prepared for his ferocious resistance. “You liar!”, he grunted as he struggled against his captors to no avail. “Let go of me!”

Thranduil, ignoring the accusation and the plea, claimed another step.  And then another. His head was clearer, but his core was still shaking.

“ _Imrid amrâd ursul_ "

The hatred in it was palpable, steaming. It hit him on the last step of the ascend, striking hard at his sides, knocking the air out of him. Thranduil leaned against the armrest of his antlered throne, a growing void deepening in his chest, pooling in his belly.

“When you wake that dragon, perhaps”, he laughed feebly, raising a hand to his neck, allowing a sharp breath of relief when what his fingers touched was solid skin. “Not very soon, it seems. But I am patient. I can wait”

The last swearing of the Dwarf faded as he was carried away, the guards all the more abrupt with him now. All that remained was the weight of his crown, secure and constant on his head.

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo... if you are wondering 'where are Thrandy's dragon scars'... Just wait and you'll see! ;)
> 
> Khuzdul translation:  
> Imrid amrâd ursul = 'die a death of flames' 
> 
> Wonderful artwork by evankart on Deviantart  
> http://evankart.deviantart.com/art/Thorin-and-Thranduil-429133963
> 
> And just for the record: music that helped write this piece... Hmm... The DoS movie soundtrack from the equivalent scene of Thorin and Thranduil, I believe. 
> 
> I hope to have the 4th chapter ready during the weekend! ^^


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The King, the Prince, and the white elk -or the story of how they met.
> 
> TA 2768

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> Chapter four is finally here! Posed a considerable level of difficulty to write, but I hope you'll enjoy it!  
> Thank you to all the people who have given kudos to this work, and to those who have commented of course! Please keep the comments coming if you can, they are most welcome and appreciated ^^

The forest around him remained silent, no matter how many times he begged it for a sign. Rotting leaves and scarred tree trunks would give him not a trail, iron grey soil and poisoned streams bore no mark he could follow. Disoriented and weary, he would soon have to admit that he was lost. A raven cawed from somewhere far above in the impenetrable canopy towering over him. _Karâk Urdekul._ For a moment, it meant that he was not totally forsaken in this accursed place.

The forest had taken the better of him from the moment he stepped on the path leading in its darkness. Sunlight barely broke through between the blood-coloured leaves, and not once did he hear the sounds of a living, breathing creature from afar or near him.

His provisions were supposed to last for three days. Thorin was already treading on the dawn of the fifth day, on an empty stomach and with mere droplets of water left. Turning back would be the only wise option he had, yet he refused to even acknowledge its existence. A dare is a dare. He had not given much thought to how he was going to survive in his attempt to stand up to it, always postponing such thinking for later, later, and perhaps he’d find the white stag before then.

The white stag continued to be invisible to his eyes. He’d tracked as thoroughly as he’d been taught, set up traps, walked further away from the path than he should have, and yet the mythical creature remained a fantasy of mist and air. His bow weighed awkwardly on his shoulder; maybe he was hunting for ghosts after all.

Still, the days he could brace. It was the nights that filled him with dread. No guiding light of stars or moon to show the way among the bush and tree labyrinth around him, or keep him safe from danger. Unable to light a fire lest the Elves discovered his presence, Thorin had to find the least uncomfortable place to make temporary camp, and then spend the hours till the first light in a light, disturbed sleep. Never before had he felt the world around him to threaten him so. As a Dwarfling he’d learned every plane and crevice of his mountain and the forest embracing it by heart, seeking adventure more than any other his age, to the dismay of his teachers and mentor. Yet Mirkwood fought with all it had to defeat him.

 The light around him grew stronger. Yet no matter how much it did grow, the world in which it tried to shine remained dull and dim, cast in its melancholy silence, any fading colour stripped of life. Thorin was starting to confuse one clearing with the next, unsure where he was headed. Swearing under his breath he rested his back against a distorted old oak. Maybe he should try to return. It would be humiliation enough, but no one had ever attempted such a feat in the first place. Surviving Mirkwood was memorable enough an accomplishment.

A twig snapped. The sound had travelled from behind him. Breath hitched in his throat, he unhung his bow from his shoulder and notched an arrow as quietly as he could. There was no knowing what or who was there, and letting himself give into fear was not an option when he was all alone. Drawing the arrow back he rolled on his side against the trunk, just enough to peer behind it. Eyes of sea and sapphire widened as they took in the white stag in all its elegant grandeur grazing only a few feet away from him. Antlered head bobbing slightly as it selectively moved from one mouthful of wilting grass to the other. The smallest inch of it was the colour of snow, save for coal eyes and snout. It stood out amid the dying nature as a diamond cast amidst chainmail; it seemed alien amidst the rotting, dying nature around it, and yet it blended with it, silent and eerie as its home.

Thorin’s knuckles turned white as his grip on the bow tightened. Something was quite amiss. Lips drawn back in a soundless hiss of concentration, he drew the string back to its full capacity, taking aim. The elk snorted. Blood running cold, he could feel every breath cold in his lungs, sweat breaking on his brow. There was no telling how or why the stag had, seemingly by chance, roamed so close to him, or how he could have been so lucky. All he knew was that he was not allowed to miss.  His fingers flexed on the bow’s elm wood -no resistance as they tightened. With a huff of frightened surprise, the Dwarven Prince turned to glance at his hand. His seal ring was gone, not biting into the skin of his index when his grip grew too tight.

The stag snorted again, and his eyes darted back on it. Its snout lowered, it was nuzzling a faintly glinting piece of metal with curiosity, turning its head to smell it better, exposing its long neck to Thorin in confusing oblivion to the danger so close to it. Thorin doubted that it had not smelled him, being so close, or that it had not seen him, positioned now so as to almost face him. He took aim again, painstakingly slowly. The stag kept moving as it was playing with his ring, so focused as if deciphering it. It pawed the earth around it gently with its front hooves, moved closer to sniff at it elegantly again, huffed, retreated, and then repeated the small ritual again, from a slightly different angle. Thorin faltered. 

The raven cawed again, sounding closer. The stag’s ears shot forward, eyes finally spotting the danger in the raised bow. With a bellow of alarm, it darted the other way, faltering but not stopping when an arrow of black wood, airborne by scarlet feathers, lodged itself in its left shoulder. Thorin cursed loudly. His hands were still shaking as he took a few steps forward, bending to pick up his ring before he broke into a run after the wounded stag.

The world flew around him, a flurry of stone and branch and leaf, as he raged his way through the forest, hurtling over boulders, avoiding the occasional rogue root protruding from the ground. His face got scratched more than once as he pushed through foliage blocking his way, the white shadow dancing in front of his eyes, never far away yet never in his grasp. His breaths were too fast for his chest to follow.

He hunted where the stag led, as all closed in around him, time and space dissolving as only his prey formed his vision and guided his steps. The stag was tiring bit by bit, it would not last, not with a wound incapacitating its shoulder more and more as it ran. His heart skipped a beat when he nonetheless saw it disappear. And then the ground disappeared under his feet too, and he was falling, hitting his head hard before landing on his side.

Thorin shook his head and with a grunt turned to look around him. The forest level had grown uneven out of nowhere, at least eight feet below where it had been just moments ago. This was certainly a part of the forest he had not seen before. The stag was just ahead of him, immobile, chest heaving, blood marring the milky white of its fur, trickling down its injured leg and ribs. Proud head of the arch of richly branching antlers lowered. The Dwarven Prince fumbled for his bow. The animal watched him out the corner of its eye and took off once more just when he had scrambled to his feet to take aim. And again, Thorin followed with an angry snarl. It could not run forever.

Sure enough, the elk soon swayed. With greedy eyes Thorin expected it to fall, but instead it cried out in pain, and in a final surge of strength took a sharp turn and crashed through a wall of leaves and branches. He followed with a grunt, raising his arms to protect his eyes as he expected thorny red leaves and sharpened soot-coloured branches to bite into him. But the foliage gave way at once, brushing at his angry arms harmlessly, and where his eyesight was a blur of darkness, green swam into his eyes, so pure and so much that it momentarily blinded him as he found himself at the other side of the foliage, bow raised and arrow notched as he forced his body to a sudden stop with a shout of wild triumph.

He was in a clearing just like any other near Erebor, forest lush and green and amber around him, cloaked in the colours of autumn, just as it should be, bright under the midday sun. The chirping of birds found its way to his ears, the fresh taste of clean air, instead of stale confused him. He would have sworn the stag had not led him out of Mirkwood, for the space felt closed in a circle, if not from above. And in its centre, facing him, was the stag.

Still it was standing, somehow, head turned to nuzzle its wound. At his thunderous arrival its ears prickled, and it shuddered in fear. Thorin kept his hand steady. All it would take was one more arrow, one more blow. The stag’s head turned to him slowly, neck unfolding gracefully, revealing a form nestled in its curve. The Dwarven Prince’s lips pulled back in the mask of a wolfish growl. The stranger had a palm pressing under the stag’s wound as he carefully turned to see him.

“Move out of the way”, Thorin snarled. Eyes of ice and sky locked with his in fear. His grip on the bow faltered. The stranger’s eyes travelled from his, to his bow, to the quiver filled with arrows at his side. They were wide. And beautiful.

“Didn’t you hear me?”, he repeated, yet his voice had lost its intensity, something in it had changed.

The stranger put out a hand to placate him, taking a step forward but never leaving the stag’s side. “Lower your bow”

The voice was deeper than he would have expected, filling the space between them in steady, flowing notes.

“This is my kill”, Thorin protested, bow kept firmly in place.

“This is an animal sacred to my people. I will not let harm come to it. Lower your bow”, the stranger pressed on, a tremor in his voice. His common tongue was unpractised, the hints of an accent ghosting on his tongue. He stood tall, taller than most he had ever seen in his life. A cascade of flaxen hair crowned his head, thick ebony eyebrows frowning at him, thin line of a nose rounded at the tip, scrunched up. His face was set with planes and angles and yet was full, a chiselled oval sharpening at the chin. The lips, a pale rose’s petals, shaped much like a bow, were now pressed together. He needn’t see the pointed ears to know an Elf was before him.

Thorin’s chest swelled with indignation, and the Elf’s eyes trembled imperceptibly as the other refused to comply.

The elk gave a low moan of pain as its knees gave way from underneath it. The Elf’s attention immediately turned to it, breaths coming out a little too fast, hands fluttering over its fur in an attempt to soothe its suffering, to ease its way down. A melodic stream of sounds followed, subtle as a harp’s undertones. The Elvish tongue, Thorin’s mind recognised.

All he could do was watch as the stag lied down clumsily, wounded leg extended at a painful angle. The Elf had followed it, kneeling beside it, face buried in the creature’s lush fur as the murmuring continued. His hands were trembling as they approached the damaged skin where the arrow was buried, and the stag huffed pitifully, snout nudging the Elf’s shoulder as it gave a plaintive whine. The stranger run his palms down the elk’s cheeks as if it were human, gently guiding it to rest its head on the ground before trembling pale fingers reached for the arrow’s shaft.

“I said you lower your bow”. Thorin was not expecting to be addressed again now. The stranger’s eyes were on him forcefully, and the Dwarven Prince found it was impossible for him to move. The Elf’s face was contorted by a spasm of pain as he jerked the arrow free. He could not look, Thorin realised. The animal bellowed in agony and thrashed its hind legs, fought to free itself from the stranger’s grip. Desperately the Elf spoke to it, pressing his palm atop the wound in an attempt to stall the blood flow. The stag only whined and struggled more.

Thorin looked on, transfixed, as the arrow’s shaft creaked and then broke in two in the Elf’s white grip. Barely registering it, he let the remains fall from his palm, pressing down on the Elk with both hands and torso, voice growing louder with effort but never sharper. He did not need to know the language to understand the Elf was pleading.

“Help me!”

It was halfway to a sob.

His bow was first lowered and then lifelessly fell from his hand. As if not in full control of his body he walked closer, heart clenching when the stag resisted even harder. His sight terrified it, its pain beyond the Elf’s control. It must have been then that Khuzdul had started to soothingly pour from his lips, and he found himself kneeling in front of the elk, extending his palms for it to know his scent. Before long his hands stroked the smooth fur of its snout and head, and the animal quietened beneath his touch, surrendered.

He felt the Elf’s gaze on him. The stranger spared him a nod when he looked, and got to work as Thorin’s hands kept the animal quiet and still for him. It was the first time Thorin had seen an Elf, heard its tongue, or seen its medicinal abilities at work. From a pouch in his belt the stranger produced a white and green powder, smelling of dry plant matter. Chanting under his breath he spread it along the wound with fingers caked in the animals’ blood. The elk stayed completely still in spite of the pain this must have caused, and to Thorin it seemed as if it were under some kind of spell for as long as the Elf’s voice reverberated.

Three times the Elven hands an over the wound, three times it repeated its incantation, each one with more strain than the last. Nothing shone, nothing changed in the physical world around him, nothing which he could tell, and yet a strange effect had taken hold of him, for it felt that he’d sat too close to a fire, or that frozen needles stung his skin, even if there was no breath of wind. The Elf’s form was distorted in his eyes, as if there was this time a realisation that there were layers in what his eyes could see, but layers his mind could not peel away, could not swim deeper than the surface.   

“We need something to bind it”. He was awoken from this timeless state. The Elf’s face was smeared with blood where he had wiped the sweat off his face, and dark circles that were not there before darkened under his eyes. Thorin must have looked utterly confused, for the deep voice sounded again. “The wound. We need something to bind it with”. The Dwarven Prince glanced around him helplessly. He had taken no bandages with him, and had no clean clothes to spare. His look of helplessness tore a sigh from the Elf’s lips, and tiredly he started undoing the clasps holding his cloak-like shirt closed at the front of his torso. Thorin bit his lip, contesting the urge to keep looking.

When he dared return his gaze, the Elf was stripped to the waist and tearing the intricately woven sage green garment into long strips. The elk’s eyes were closed. “Is it asleep?”

“Yes. It will remain so for a while. It will help with the pain”, replied the Elf, absorbed in his task.

Thorin’s eyes devoured as many details as they could. He had failed to imagine all the differences between the Elves and his kin, much as he’d been fascinated by them when he was younger. The naked skin was seemingly hairless, so unlike the thick fur-like hair of the Dwarves in any body spot possible. And it was unmarred by wound or tattoo, pale yet bright with health as alabaster. The frame was lean, lithe as a cat’s form. Muscle was not amassed in observable quantity, but, sure enough wiry ropes of honed strength appeared and disappeared with the waves of the Elf’s motions. Flaxen tufts fell over the stranger’s shoulders as he worked, glinting golden in the sunlight, revealing the pointy tip of his ear, the only characteristic in him that seemed feral.  He was close enough to sense the other’s smell, fresh yet rich, the smell of spring forest after a rain. Yet only his mind could wonder what all these differences would feel like to the touch, a thought that made his heart grow giddy. But it was so difficult to see the Elf as part of earth, as a creature that breathed and lived and existed in space, not just in time, in the physical world as well as the one beneath the layers he could not reach. Only touch could tell him that, only touch would assure him.

“Thank you”

It caught him unawares, and the skin in his neck and up to the roots of his hair grew hot, as if he’d been caught doing something wrong. There was no word he could say in reply. The animal’s near death was his fault, and it had been a feat he had wanted to accomplish. Any apology would sound fake, even if only to his own ears. A feeling of uneasiness settled in his stomach as instead he reached to stroke the lush fur in the elk’s neck once more.

“You’d better go now. It would be better if you were not found here”.

“I do not know how”, mumbled the Dwarven Prince, mind sinking in a pool of regret and melancholy for no reason he could explain with words.

“Go east. You will find a river. Follow it and you shall be safe”, spoke the Elf softly. Still he had not raised his eyes to him.

Thorin nodded, and after a brief silence shifted awkwardly, unsure if there was something he ought to say. The stranger seemed all but oblivious to him, now concentrated on laying the first layer of cloth strips over the wound of the sleeping stag. With a final glance at him, Thorin got to his feet, dusting the dirt from his clothes as best he could. Numbly he collected his discarded bow, slinging it over his shoulder, and stuck the arrow that would have dealt death back in its quiver. No clouds were concealing the sky that day, despite the autumn’s steady march the past month. Inhaling deeply enough as if to take something of this peculiar clearing with him, he made his way to the other edge of the clearing, eyeing the shapes of the grey trees beyond the circle of green oasis with dread.

“ _Novaer_ ”

Pausing, he spun slowly, only to see the Elf’s hand raised in a motion of farewell. “ _Novaer_ ”, he repeated.

“ _Dayamu Khuzan-ai menu_ ”, he replied solemnly after some heartbeats.

A small smile crept on the Elf’s lips.

“ _Na lû e-govaned vîn_ ”

The voice was soft, indistinguishable from the cool breeze against his cheeks, even if Thorin could not understand.  The Elf’s eyes caught and reflected the light as he bowed his head, and time had stopped once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations
> 
> Sindarin:  
> Novaer  
> /ˈnɔ.vaɛr/  
> Farewell  
> Literal: Be good
> 
>  
> 
> Na lû e-govaned vîn  
> /na ˈlu: ɛ.ˈgɔ.va.nɛd ˈvi:n/  
> Until next we meet  
> Literal: To the time of our meeting  
> http://www.arwen-undomiel.com/elvish/phrases.html
> 
> Khuzdul:  
> Karâk Urdekul  
> Ravens of Erebor  
> http://midgardsmal.com/category/khuzdul/
> 
> Dayamu Khuzan-ai menu  
> Blessings of the Ancestors Upon You  
> https://www.lotro.com/forums/showthread.php?390991-Thramili-s-Khuzdul-Dictionary(revisited)
> 
>  
> 
> Just random trivia, the powder Thrandy uses comes from athelas ^^ 
> 
> Song that helped write this: weird choice, King by Lauren Aquilina 
> 
> And so, there was this amazing artwork that inspired this scene, of a, I think, young-looking Thorin with a drawn bow aiming up close at a half-naked Thrandy... But I just couldn't find it so... many many thanks to the artist, whoever it is, for helping me imagine this installment of the story! If anyone comes across it, please let me know!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That is not what I am to you”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! ^^  
> Chapter 5 is here! The characterisation was tricky in that one -we get a new major POV!  
> Also, I believe this chapter will answer most of the questions you asked me regarding ships... Those who are to understand have understood XD (Juuust note that I am not saying this is the end of the matter...)  
> Thank you to everyone who's been with this little fic on its journey so far! And, as always, comments are more than welcome and thoroughly appreciated!  
> Now, some housekeeping: all translations are at the end of the chapter, as you probably know already.  
> Also, a 'warning' of sorts... I do not think this is going to end up being only 12 chapters. Not that 12 chapters was the plan, but when I started this it was as far as I could see. I am reluctant to give a new number of chapters yet, but know that it will be more than 12.  
> Last but not least next update is scheduled for either Sunday or Monday.  
> And without further ado... Hope you enjoy the new chapter! ^^

_‘What are you doing here?’ A hushed voice, fingers in his hair. The familiar scent as he buried his face in the other’s chest. ‘Thorin? Someone might have seen you…’ In quiet apology, he rubbed his nose against the Elf’s chest, breathing in. His lover ran his hands over his head soothingly, cradling him close. It took a while before he spoke again; ‘What happened?_ Mell nín? _’. ‘I missed you…’ a soft whine. Protective arms enveloping him closer in a cocoon of warmth. ‘I missed you too’. A kiss atop his head, and then more being slowly added._

_‘Can we just run away?’, he’d sighed, clutching the Elf tighter. ‘Can we? Please….’, he’d insisted over the murmured soothing of his lover. ‘Thorin… You would never abandon your people’. It struck at him hard, not least because it was true. ‘For you. For you I-’_

_‘Shh…’ a slender finger rested on his lips. ‘Do not make promises it is not your burden to keep. You do not need to measure your love for me against the love for your people’. Gentle eyes locked with his, a hand rubbed the back of his neck tenderly. ‘They will need you to guide them soon. And I will be there, and proud of you’._

_‘I don’t want this’, he had sobbed, forcibly hiding his face once again, this time in the Elf’s curve of neck. ‘I do not want to be King. I do not want to be like… like_ him _…’. A held breath. ‘Oh,_ Thorin _…’ The Elf could have asked what had happened, what nonsense of hatred and greed his grandfather had spawn this time, what alliance he’d threatened to break. But he had learned that, after all this while, there was simply no point in asking. Thror was too far gone for it to make any difference. Thorin’s heart had learned the same, and yet bled every time._

 _‘You are not like him. You never will be. Av-'osto, mell_ nín _.  You have love in your heart, not greed or wrath…’. A trembling sigh left his lips, and he moved back to be able to meet his Elf’s eyes. ‘I love you’, he murmured. ‘I love you too’, came the reply steadily, as always, with no doubt. ‘ _Nê kikûn inthir’, he breathed fervently as his lips hovered above the Elf’s, hot breaths exchanging in silence. ‘Never’.__

This had been before. Before the betrayal. Before the dragon. Before the realisation of what they were becoming swept over them. In the darkness of his cell, Thorin could remember this as one of the happy days, one of the last ones, even if they had been standing on the brink of the abyss.

Now it left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. His stomach still clenched every time he remembered Thranduil’s ice blue eyes tearing through him. ‘ _You are just like him’_. _You are just like him you are just like him_ , his mind chanted over and over again. And not once had Thranduil acknowledged him for what they’d been. All he had cared about was their trespassing, no matter how hard Thorin pressed him. ‘ _Promises are meant to be broken_ ’, he had only said. Was that all there was to it, then? But it had not been Thorin who had warned repeatedly about the Bond that would never break. The Dwarven Prince knew, and he had accepted it. It wasn’t him who had run away in fear. It wasn’t him who betrayed…

Thorin often tried to pinpoint the exact moment when the first crack ran across the ice they treaded, the first sign that their life would crumble. Tried to discover whether he could have seen it, whether he could have fixed it, if only he’d seen it, if only… But when the memories took a particular turn, leading him to a corner of his mind he never wished to visit, he halted them in their tracks and forced them to change direction. It was the last thing he wanted to remember, what he had done instead…

Dwalin started snoring in his sleep, interrupting his gloomy thoughts. Balin was the quiet one when he slept, but even he now elbowed his brother harshly. Dwalin mumbled something in annoyed Khuzdul and went back to sleep -and soon, back to snoring once again.

They had been in the dungeons of Mirkwood for a week now, deprived of neither sunlight nor food and drink. But it was their restlessness and increasing disappointment that imprisoned them more than the iron bars of their cells. But there was more. They were again thirteen. The Hobbit had gone missing since they were captured in the forest, and, after more than a week of no news of him, all the Dwarves had come to accept the fact that they would probably ever see him again, all with a lump in their throat. Bilbo may have been lucky with the goblins, but he could not have been that lucky a second time. Not all alone, in a forest of spiders, of poisoned water, and with no sunlight or food. Self-loathing accumulated in him like bile. He’d been reckless with Bilbo’s safety, taken the Hobbit’s resilience for granted.

The elegant thud of Elvish feet passed in front of his cell. It was none other than their guard, keys rattling in his belt. The first time he’d come to serve them food, he’d explained that any requests they had they could express to him, and he’d make sure they were passed on to his superiors, tongue awkwardly shaping the common tongue’s sounds. It had reminded him of Thranduil’s funny accent, how he’d merge sounds or transform them to sound as if he were speaking Sindarin even when he was not. Thorin had called him unsociable. Thranduil had laughed and proceeded to mock his own, Khuzdul-influenced accent.  It was not entirely accurate, but then again, he had a point. Thorin would lose this accent, along with many, too many, other things, on the way to exile and Ered Luin.

The guard discreetly peered into his cell, waited for his curt nod, and then moved on to the next one, where Balin and Dwalin slept. This would be their last inspection till dawn, when fresh water and a decent, if spartan, breakfast would be offered. Soon it was quiet again, save for Dwalin’s constant snoring, of course. Thorin had stopped to mind it. It replaced the soothing sounds of night, the cicadas or breeze, the occasional night-owl, and in this way, it could be said to be comforting.

Thorin pulled his coat tighter about him as he slumped against the wall. The only problem down here was the cold. It was a wet type of cold, bone-piercing and unsettling, that gave you sore muscles and headaches.

But then again, it always seemed to be cold. Never in a purely physical way; furs and clothes had not lost their effectiveness, and the sturdy build of his people protected him against the moods of the weather with ease. It was that since last he held the Elf’s warmth in his hands, no other touch and nothing else had ever compared to it. And when that warmth was taken from him, only then did he realise how cold it all seemed without it. Thorin gritted his teeth. He was not allowed feel anything for the traitor, not allowed to let him occupy that much space in his thoughts. His stomach heaved. In the throne room. In the Elf’s presence. He had been unable to resist, he could see that now. He’d been aiming for the sore wound in both their sides, wanted to steer the Elf to talk, to explain, as if that was the only obstacle standing between them. It was his people that had been betrayed. Not only him. His personal feelings, any chances, any hopes, had seized to matter the moment his people were denied the aid they were promised. What he had done was merely attempt to betray them a second time. The realisation ought to have filled him with rage. He remained empty.

Cold sweat broke in his brow, a slight tremor in his hands. Thorin could only bite his lips to force his breathing back to normal, lean his head against the stone as a feeling dangerously close to despair clawed at his throat. Shutting his eyes, Thorin willed his mind to pick at the scab again and again. It never worked. It had turned into a scar.  

He was awakened by the whispers of his name. Alarmed, he withdrew even further, fumbling about in the dark for something to protect himself with. “Shh, stop making all this fuss, you’ll wake the others!”, came a snapping, familiar voice. “Last thing we want is a bunch of cheering Dwarves waking this Elvish lot up. Do you know how difficult it is to find them all asleep?”. His heart jumped in his chest.

“Bilbo!”

“At your service”, appeared the tired but smiling face of his burglar on the other side of his cell’s bars. Thorin scrambled to his feet and rushed to stand in front of him. “How?”, he muttered.

“Too big a tale to tell now”, replied the Halfling with a cheeky grin. For a moment they stayed still, looking at each other, one with weary but gentle eyes, the other with relief and joy and worry all at once.

“I thought I’d lost you”, breathed the Dwarven King at last, tipping his head forward and closing his eyes, all the fear he’d been suppressing oozing out of him in waves. He was met with the familiar reply, as Bilbo stood on his toes to press their foreheads together in the customary Dwarven greeting of love and care. Their essences intertwined quietly, and a hole in Thorin’s heart was filled again.

“Shh… I’m alright… It’s alright… No losses, no nothing. All is well”, Bilbo said calmly, waiting a few moments more before he let his weight fall on the soles of his feet again. “I am cooking up a plan to get us all out of here the soonest”.

It was Thorin’s turn to smile, shaking his head in amazement. “Do not tell the others yet, it will only make them more fidgety and reckless than they already are. I just wanted to see you are fine and keep you some company until dawn, if you liked”, Bilbo continued. The Dwarf nodded, following Bilbo’s example when the other sat down, leaning his side against the bars of the cell.

“How many days have you been here?”

“As many as you. I saw you were captured by the Elves and followed you. Then I hid and waited, started memorising the palace, the Elves’ routine, searching for where they had taken you and for a way out”, Bilbo said, twisting the golden ring around in his pocket.

“But-”

“Nuh-uh, my turn to ask questions now”. Bilbo said firmly, raising an index in emphasis. Thorin’s confused glance only made him roll his eyes.

“What is going on with you and the Elven King?”

Thorin nearly choked.

“So?...” pressed the Hobbit. “Don’t try to fool me. I saw you two”.

“What did you see?”, almost stuttered the Dwarf.

“In the throne room… The day you were captured… The way you look at him…”

Thorin snorted; and Bilbo ignored him. “Do you want to tell me more about it?”, he said instead, folding his arms across his chest and turning so that he could look at the Dwarf more directly, much like a child pleading for a bed-time story.

“You already know what has happened”, sighed Thorin tiredly.

“That he betrayed Erebor, you mean. Yes. And the feud over the white gems. Balin had told me numerous times. But you don’t hate him”

Thorin exhaled slowly, closing his eyes.

“See? You don’t. If what I was saying was wrong, you would have at least attempted to punch me in the face”.

Thorin’s eyes widened in indignation. “I would never have-!”

“Why don’t you hate him, then?”

The Dwarf pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “By Mahal, how, how can you be…”, he muttered.

“Your soulmate?”, chuckled Bilbo. “Or whatever term you would use, we don’t have such a fancy system for classifying love.  Which brings me to… What is this sun and moon business?”.

“Which you know about because you had to eavesdrop on me and Gandalf”, whispered an exasperated Thorin.

“ _Happened_ to eavesdrop”, corrected the Halfling. The night before reaching Mirkwood, Gandalf had taken Thorin away from the others to warn him to be discreet, invisible to the Elves if possible. The Dwarf had almost inexplicably tensed up. The Wizard had grown irritated, accusing the stupidity of Elves and Dwarves alike for toying with something as important as the love of sun and moon, turning it into offensive, pointless powerplay. He still had shivers run down his spine every time he recalled the viciousness in Thorin’s voice as he’d snarled ‘Whether you like it or not, that damned Elf is bonded to me! If he has to, he’ll do what I say’. “It does concern me too”.

The Dwarf leaned his head back against the cold stone wall. “The Elves have a myth, the myth of the Sun and the Moon” _Arien and Tilion_ , murmured Thranduil’s voice in his head, from so long ago.

“They see them as the ultimate example of deep love that can surpass any obstacle. Elves say that what Men call soulmates among the creatures of Middle earth are like the Sun and the Moon. It is like the Dwarven concept of the ‘One’ -though among us it is a rarer occurrence. All races believe that anyone has a chance, if they are lucky, of finding the one other being that completes them. And if they do, then a Bond will form between them, a Bond that will transform them both. The Elves then call one half of the pair the Sun and the other the Moon. They can see this transformation in their auras. We Dwarves mostly feel it through touch. Men have a similar notion. The Bond affects the couple in other, intimate ways too… Not least in the need for one for the other. Often the Sun and its Moon will bear other marks to signify who they are, and with whom they are Bonded. A piece of clothing, a braid. Jewellery; silver for the Moon, golden for the Sun. Both we and the Elves see crucial differences between a Sun and a Moon.  I do not know much about Men”.

“What differences?”, asked the Hobbit, frowning.

“Differences which are said to be necessary to make them complete each other. That is what is widely believed, at least. The Moon is weak, and the Sun is its strength. The Moon gives love to the Sun, waits for it, obeys as it rules. The Sun then protects the Moon, grants it refuge and provides. Moons raise a family, Suns protect it”, Thorin said, recalling what he’d been taught.

Bilbo snorted. “That is not what I am to you”.

Thorin, surprised, cast him a sideways glance. “No… You are not. Because you are.... You… It is not a well-documented case. It is rare. But sometimes, not all Bonds materialise in physical intimacy-”

“Would you quit being obnoxious?”, Bilbo laughed. “What do you mean ‘documented’? You do not document people’s relationships, Thorin. You feel them. Forget that nonsense for a moment. What am I to you?”

“I love you more than a friend, but you are not my lover…”, Thorin started reluctantly. “I care about you deeply, even if you are not family…”.

“And you would protect me at all costs”, finished Bilbo for him. “Then, I am that to you. I am what you feel me to be, not what you would call me. But, only out of curiosity… what would that be, anyway? I love to see how you complicate things”

The Dwarven King wanted to agree, but still he could not. Things were not as simple as Bilbo presented them to be. “I am Bonded with you, though not in body. Just in heart”, Thorin tried.

“Then, that makes me your heart’s Moon, but not your soul’s Moon? Meaning, not a conventional soulmate but the closest thing you have to it?”

“Aye… Something very close to that, if it was to have a name”.

The Halfling threw his hands up in the air. “If you so urgently needed a name for it, then now you have it”, he offered in comical resignation. But Thorin was brooding again.

“I do hate him”, he muttered, to Bilbo’s surprise. “But still… I just do not know how else to feel about him. You say names do not matter. I do not want them to, but they do. Because they are not just names. They are more. Much more”. He took a deep breath which he let out in small puffs of air. “All this time, in spite of everything, the Bond never broke”. His voice had deepened, a gentle vibrato claiming its lower tones.

“So you love him?”, suggested Bilbo. “Is that what you mean?”.

“He betrayed my people. I am not allowed to love him. It is despicable”, came Thorin’s swift, practised reply.

“Well… To be honest, it is not the best thing he could have done to you, no. But have you ever talked to him, after that? Without insulting him, that is”. A faint flicker of hope passed over the Dwarf’s face, but did not linger long.

“Bilbo, this is not some romantic fairy-tale. Just because we happened to end up here does not mean I should pursue something that was left to burn more than a century ago.  And betrayal is not something you can erase with talking”, he eventually decided. “Besides… I do not know what _he_ feels, after all this time.  After… After what I did”.

Bilbo waited in silence for Thorin to elaborate, which he never did. The Dwarf was looking at his hands, at the old seal-ring on his middle finger. An ominous flutter of intuition gripped the Halfling’s stomach.

“But you tell me the Bond has not broken”.

“Because that is the nature of the Bond. It never breaks. That is its price”.

* * *

 

 

Κράτα το

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations (in order of appearance in the text):
> 
> Mell nín ~ My beloved (Sindarin)  
> http://tara.istad.org/sind-phrases.htm
> 
> Av-'osto (Sindarin)  
> English: Don't be afraid  
> Literal: [you] don't fear  
> Pronunciation: a.VOS.to  
> IPA Pronunciation: /ɑ.ˈvɔs.tɔ/  
> https://realelvish.net/101_sindarin.html
> 
> Nê kikûn inthir! (Khuzdul)  
> “Never forget”  
> nê: “don’t”  
> kikûn: “ever, at any time”  
> inthir: imperative singular of root √n-th-r “forget”  
> http://midgardsmal.com/category/khuzdul/
> 
>  
> 
> Sweet sweet artwork by kurosmind on Tumblr. No copyright infringement intended. 
> 
>  
> 
> Music that helped inspire this piece... Aghh... Yep, so it has to be this thingie here, sorry guys. Must have been the nice cello line or something XD  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FWI7hpq4LIU  
> (Bulgaria's Eurovision entry for 2017 - Krisian Kostov, 'Beautiful Mess', the instrumental/karaoke version)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was no future in which they could mend the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! ^^  
> Sorry it took me longer to post than scheduled. It was the most difficult installment to write so far, and I kept going back to revise and change it. I managed to be satisfied enough with the result to post it today, finally.  
> Best wishes to all the people who have commented and left kudos! I appreciate it immensely! And of course a huge thank you to everyone readng! ^^  
> I hope you enjoy this chapter- and fear not! There will be more soon (during the weekend most probably). Hint, we're going to travel back in time again, and it's going to be much less gloomy and more exciting!  
> All translations are in the end notes, in the order in which they appear in the text.  
> Warning: uhm.... *angst intensifies* *creates more problems than its solves* *angst*

Five more days passed in the same fashion as the others. Bilbo had not returned, which did nothing to ease Thorin’s worry. The Halfling had promised he would bring him news soon, but how long ‘soon’ was, Thorin had no way of knowing.

In silence, he watched the reflections of the sun’s light, how they tremored and danced on the stone walls of his cell until they receded to the twinkle of starlight. He drank and ate mechanically, the food turning into ash on his tongue. Yet he forced himself to swallow. If they were to be free soon, he would need all the strength he could gather, he told himself every time a bite was over.

This place woke more memories in him than he wanted to remember. It wasn’t that he had ever before been in Thranduil’s dungeons. But this play of the light on stone was the same in every cavern of his palace. Thorin had journeyed here on behalf of Erebor to prepare and seal that fatal military alliance with the Elven King, months before Smaug. Of course, when he had begged to be the one to go, no one could have known the true reason of his insistence. Only one person knew, the person that waited for him impatiently, the person that had ripped his clothes off him when at last they were left alone in his royal chambers.

Bilbo’s words rang in his head. _‘Have you ever talked to him?_ ’. His honest, naïve Bilbo. Who had understood who he was for Thorin even in terms other than his own, before Thorin could have even thought of putting it into words. His Moon. His heart’s Moon, at least. How he had felt Thorin was the Sun, he could not understand, since he had never before explained it to him. The Dwarf was not sure if he wanted to be in the position, to bear such responsibility once more, despite the truth of his feelings. It was not something he could share with the Halfling, for Bilbo was unaware of the totality of his story with the Elven King -and even if he was not, something told him that he still would strive to find light amidst the ruins.

 _‘Have you ever talked to him?_ ’. What was there to be said between him and Thranduil that would not just make matters worse, was beyond him. The amount of confusion and pain that stood between them stood as immovable as a stone wall between them. If he had been younger, if he had been different, or if things had been different, maybe he could have had the courage to find a way above, or under, or even around that barrier. All omens now seemed to tell him that the time lost could never be made up for. There was no future in which they could mend the past. Not least because of the quest. Thorin may be a Dwarf, but even he was not made of stone. His flesh could be beaten, his body could be broken. No one could withstand a dragon’s searing wrath.

Bilbo made his appearance two days later. In a hushed voice, he explained his plan to the Dwarven King how they would take advantage of the great Elvish feast taking place in four days to make their escape. The earth had swayed under Thorin’s feet with anticipation, but fear also. They were unarmed, with no provisions. Much as he yearned to be back on the road to Erebor, the easier part of their journey was irreversibly over, the thought conjuring the feeling you get when looking down a cliff you know you must climb down from, with nothing to stall the danger of falling.

His appetite diminished; sleep would not visit him. He paced the length of his small cell countless times, all the while struggling to find something else to occupy his mind with. Remembering was too peaceful a pastime, and yet somehow, he compulsively returned to it when his body gave out and his eyelids could hardly be kept open. Partly because something in him told him that this could be the only time he had to review the past, if something was to go wrong on the quest. The least he could do was face himself. Pay homage to the joyful moments of his life, to remember the ones he’d lost and cherish those still with him.

Thranduil dominated these musings with ease. The King, the lover… The weeping form at his feet, the indifferent mask on the cliff as he turned his back. The mystical Elf of mist and air. The smooth skin beneath his hands, malleable as a gem or burning iron. The silvery strength of his essence, etched onto his own, pleading to be united with its missing half. A moon behind his closed eyelids, still there beside him on the bed when he turned to look, milky blue light clad in the Elven shape into his arms, the moon itself descended from the skies to lie with him in the confines of his chamber of stone.

At dawn’s light, he shared his vision with his One, certain he’d been hallucinating. Dwarves could not see auras. They could feel their counterpart, the essence, through touch. It was plain impossible that his senses had expanded more than the abilities of his kind. At this, his Elf had laughed into his ear languorously, lithe body curling into his. _It’s the Bond forming, Princeling. It changes both of us._

 _Both of us._ Had Thranduil changed? Could he feel Thorin’s essence upon contact? Taste his pulse with just a brush of their fingers? The Elf never told him.

It was too much to bear alone. Thorin had never before appreciated the weight of unshared memory. Until he’d been forced to look away from his Bond and lover, until he’d had to bury his small treasure of happiness into the darkest plane of his mind and keep it there. From every eye and ear. From everyone’s knowledge, save his own.

For memories stowed away and suppressed, they never ceased to torment him. Like hunting dogs they charged at him at his most vulnerable, howling with the delight of the pain they inflicted how this was not how things once were. And so Thorin was compelled to remember. The ice-blue eyes of autumn sky, the gentle glow of flaxen hair. Every smile and single tear drop, every time they’d clash and pull away, waves lapping at the shore.

It was not only memories. The longing, never defeated and never quenched, the need, severe enough to turn to pain. Distracting as it was, no other Moon ever was the same, no other ever woke a single spark within him. None other was the Moon he craved. And when the two celestial bodies joined in the sky together, his pain and need was at its harshest peak, harsh enough to make him whimper and writhe in despair. He longed and desired and remembered, for of all three it was all he could do, all he could have. Above all the soft voice of moonlight, carved in his mind, deeper than the deepest wound. ‘ _Laer lín matha faeren’. ‘Estelion allen’. ‘Guren min gaim lín’, meleth e-guilen’._ Thorin could not remember the last time he had cried.

“Thorin”.

He wiped his eyes abruptly, staring at the moisture left on his hands as if not recognising his tears. A small hand reached with strain to remove a silver tuft falling in his eyes.

“I am so sorry…”

From anyone else, pity would have upset him, but this time he did not mind. Bilbo was looking at him from across the bars of his cell with worried, creasing eyes.

“I know…”, he muttered, clearing his throat. “I know it’s too late. But I only want to see him. One last time”.

The Halfling’s eyes narrowed in sympathy. His hand stroked the Dwarf’s cheek softly, feeling the roughened beard under his fingertips, wishing he could by this touch alone bring Thorin’s shattered pieces together. “Wait for me tonight”. And he was gone.

The rest of the day passed in a state of numbness as time immaterialised and dissolved in an infinity of breaths and heartbeats. Thorin felt Bilbo’s approach but at first did not move, not until the Halfling’s whispered calling grew urgent.

“I have the key”, he whispered to a weary Thorin. “You have three hours at most to return it to me, or else we will all be in serious trouble. We don’t want the Elves to notice anything suspicious or our escape plans for tomorrow will go up in smoke”.

The Dwarf nodded. Bilbo pushed the key in the lock and turned slowly. The mechanism worked with a soft clang. Breathing out the breath he’d been holding in fear someone might hear them, Bilbo pulled the heavy iron door open and pulled Thorin outside as he took his place.

“There are stairs to your right. They lead to a large corridor, and from then on you need to-”, something in Thorin’s eyes made him stop. “So, from then on you know the way, then”, he shrugged.

“There are no guards?”

“A handful. Everyone is busy preparing for the feast tomorrow, and I also think they have a smaller celebration for some visiting Elves. The King is alone -and will be for a while; I am entirely sure”, Bilbo replied with a skilful air about him.

Thorin nodded, but before he could turn to leave, Bilbo pushed something in his hand. It felt cool against his skin, cool and heavy. Metal, round. “Only at the uttermost hour of need are you to use it, and even then, for as little as you can”, he warned sternly. Nodding his gratitude, Thorin shoved the golden ring in his pocket and led his way up the stairs. If now he tried to realise, to let the wild restlessness churning in his core overtake him, he was afraid reality would shatter and leave him only with fragments of foolish hope. 

The palace was just as he’d remembered, a labyrinth of spirals that nestled the King’s chambers at their centre. As if in a dream, Thorin followed the dim light of the stone corridors, passed near the throne room and turned left, and left again. The feasts took place at the level above on a wide, terrace framed by elm trees and oaks, roofed by the night sky above. Just as Bilbo had told him, there was no commotion in the corridors, save for the single, patrolling guard. Thorin would wait for him to move to the next corridor, and then soundlessly creep behind him and move on.

The spiral started descending. The palace was an architectural menace. The dungeons were at the second deepest level, but Thorin knew not what was below them. Said dungeons could only be accessed from the level of the throne room, half of which was supported not by ground but by gigantic pillars, for the ground halfway through it had been eroded, forming a small but steep cliff. The cliff hosted two more levels, the highest of which was were the King’s chambers were set situated, accessed only by the corridors close to the throne room. The dungeons were then two levels below Thranduil’s room, the open balcony two levels above it.

Thorin halted to feel the space around him. He had descended to the corridor leading to the royal chambers with no mishaps, and now only had to cross a straight line and slip in Thranduil’s room unseen. He did not plan to stay long, or do anything, for that matter. Only to look, just to look at the Elf’s form one more time. To look at him without having to face him, to match memory with life, for once, if just for one time to be the last.

He let his steps take him in front of the massive wooden arch of a door, decorated with antlers just like Thranduil’s throne. If they did not kill the deer, then how was this possible, he remembered his younger self asking the Elf. Thranduil had replied that they collected them, if they found them in the forest, and buried the rest of the animal’s body should its dead body be found with them. It was a way of showing gratitude to the creatures guarding the forest.

Swallowing down the memory of the Elf’s amused expression at his confusion, he pushed the door inwards with a palm against the wood. It gave way with no resistance, and he allowed it to open just enough for him to squeeze through to the antechamber.

It was a very real risk that Thranduil would see him. But if he recalled correctly, the antechamber was not wholly open to the King’s bedroom and study, and Thranduil never spent time there. Thorin hoped this would keep his secret safe. It was dark, and, just as he’d expected, the space around him seemed empty. With a hand along the wall he followed its length to the opening in the stone, acting like a doorway to Thranduil’s private rooms. And there he carefully peered inside and waited.

He could see a fraction of the semi-circular balcony that hugged the room, curtains blowing softly in the night breeze. He spared a moment to let the night’s breath caress his face. The floor of marble and polished wood, glinted softly in the light of candles. So, Thranduil was awake. Heart beating crazily, he focused to catch a sound, any sound at all. There was only silence. It broke in pieces before long with the forceful shuttering of glass.

The Dwarven King held his breath. Silence answered him again. Impulsively he dared take a step. And then another. The view into the room broadened.

Thranduil was sitting on edge of his bed, clad in a light, white and blue robe-like garment. His back was turned to the intruder, and slouching, as if he held his face in his hands. Shards of glass lay at his feet like dead birds, and a discarded chalice rolled mournfully by them, stopping only once it had reached the middle of the room. The Elf’s lean form was tormented by violent spasms. Sobs, Thorin realised, and the grip around his heart tightened.

There was a sucked-in breath. And then another. A hiss of pain and a groan. Thorin stood very still. Silently, the Elf straightened its back, and with clumsy movements peeled the cloth off his skin. It resisted, eliciting a tormented whine. The Dwarf could only look on helplessly as the Elf struggled to tear the garment away, inch by inch revealing the burnt skin of the left side of his body, marred almost beyond recognition by a dragon’s fire long before they’d met. The glamour spell had broken. Thranduil’s fingers, uncurled from the gnarled cloth, letting it slide off him as a fallen leaf and pool around his waist. Its inside was bloody and wet from the fluids oozing off the seared flesh. He must have been in agony for hours now.

Thorin had seen the full damage the scars had inflicted only once. It had taken all his self-restraint not to cry out at the sight. The scars extended well beyond the cheek and neck. They had claimed an ear, and a part of the skull’s skin, the outer left arm and hand, the upper side of the palm and fingers. The ribs and side of the belly, the left hip and thigh and knee and leg. Half of his love had been swallowed by dragon fire, and Thorin’s heart hurt at how close his Elf had come to being consumed by it whole.

Thranduil whizzed and moaned in pain among his sobs, left hand lifeless at his side. Thorin had never before seen him so defeated. If he closed his eyes he could feel the presence of his One, the aura of his Moon. It was as painful as it had been in the throne room, to resist to it, refuse to touch it. Now the magnitude of the Elf’s pain shot through him and throbbed in his head, unsettled his whole balance with a force enough to crack his bones. It was not only the Elf that was in agony.

He took a careful step and then another. Thranduil remained oblivious to his presence. One more. He could feel his essence straining to reach. His breathing grew ragged with longing, with need for what he’d been deprived of for so long. His eyes stung.

The distance remaining dragged his feet, a drowning man clawing his way to the surface to breathe. Knees buckling, his body fall against the Elf’s back, gathering the right sight side of him to his chest, like a parent cradling a child thought lost, a lover clutching a lover thought dead. With an unsure hand, he stroked the flaxen hair at the injured side of the Elven head, unable to control the shaking of his limbs.

The figure in his arms tensed up with a sob, but he could not stop his silver aura from responding once again, from entwining with violent need with the golden one of its other half. Thorin breathed in hungrily. Spring forest after the rain.

“Are you here to break me?”, Thranduil breathed hoarsely. Thorin could only clutch him closer desperately. The Elf was translating his thoughts from Sindarin haphazardly, not caring to render the precise meaning he wanted to convey in the common tongue. 

“No… no…”, the Dwarf breathed with his face mushed against a shoulder blade.

“I don’t care anymore… I have nothing more to give… To anyone…”, he heard Thranduil’s voice through the Elf’s skin, as his torso trembled to the rumbling tone. “ _Leithio nin… An ngell nîn… Thorin… An ngell nîn…_ ”

His mind numbly pulled the pieces of meaning together. “No… Please… I cannot do that… You know I can’t…”, he pleaded around the lump in his throat.

“Whatever you ever felt for me has turned into ash. Release me, Thorin. I beg of you… I can carry this pain no longer.  Kill me, if you must… But please… Make it stop…”.

The air was sucked from his lungs, the ground disappeared from under his feet. He was falling, and there was nothing to halt his way down. His ears buzzed with his heartbeat, all other sounds drowning out of focus. Any anger he’d ever felt, the rage, the resentment, it all melted within him, their meaning reduced to air. “No…”

“I don’t want this Bond anymore… I don’t want it…”

“ _Lu akraditu… Thranduil…”. T_ he Elf’s body started trembling again in his arms. If he but slightly made his gold of him stronger, it would crumble.

“You hate me… Why don’t you just hate me… Why must you do this to me? Why now? _Ú-chenion_ …”

Why now? The Elf had abandoned him and his people in the direst hour, and for so many years there was no apology, no explanation. Even if there was, what apology, what explanation would ever suffice. Even if there was, how could he ever accept it. For so many years there was only a throbbing, constant pain in his heart. It was the price he had to pay. His Moon had betrayed him. But it was not only him that had been betrayed, echoed his mind with the memories of all he wanted to forget. It was not only him that was broken.

“Because I will die, Thranduil”, he eventually said harshly. “I will die”.

There was a miniscule pause in the breathing and heartbeat of the Elf.  “Why do you say that now? What do you want from me?”. It verged on panic.

There had been something so much more, so much more different than this, once. The stuff of his dreams, the essence of his memories, the source of his rare smiles. Hating it meant hating his own self, the last part that remained of him. Of what he’d been, of what he could have been.

“I want nothing”, mused Thorin, cupping the pale cheek softly. The skin was slick with tears. “I ask for nothing. I should hate you. But I can’t… I just can’t… It is the worst betrayal to my people. To my own self. But I cannot hate you. And never could I wish this curse to fall upon you, this curse that also plagues me…”. Thranduil leaned into his roughened palm, like the wounded prey seeking comfort in its hunter’s touch.

And Thorin had been hating. For so long that he lost himself without knowing how or when. He had grown tired, tired and empty. It was not only Thranduil that felt he had nothing more to give. Changing his feelings was impossible; but so was denying that this was not how he wanted his life to be. How he wanted them to be.

“Forgive me”, Thorin whispered. “Forgive me, for being who I was caused this sorrow to us both. If only I was in a different form, in a different person, if only I could have loved you and not be me… I swear I would. I would…”. His voice grew weak.

“You are leaving….” It was not a question. But Thorin still could not bring himself to answer.

“We shall not meet again”, was all he said.

The Elf retreated from his touch, curling into himself as much as he could. Both arms were wra pped around his belly, tight enough to turn his knuckles the colour of bone white .

“I did not want to part from you in anger”

“Why does everything have to be about you?”, Thranduil snapped. Thorin’s heart quivered. “Go then. Fly to your death. I have suffered enough. I have paid for everything I have done wrong, twice more than I deserved”, with each word his voice grew, he straightened his form, eyes ablaze. “If this is what you want, Thorin, to not part from me in anger, then I shall give it to you. Go. Go… I won’t keep you, I won’t run after you. I accept your apology, even though you would never accept mine. I accept what you think I deserve with no ill-will. Go. But know that I will not find peace even in your death, Thorin”

Thorin’s hands retreated from the Elf’s warm skin as if bitten. “Thranduil…”

The Elf gasped in pain, clutching at his naked skin tighter, with a despair Thorin could not decipher. “Thranduil, I…”

There was a moment of quiet, undecided still, lingering in the void.

“It would be better if you were not found here”, the Elf murmured. Red-shot eyes stared ahead in an empty gaze. His chin was held proudly, if tremoring.

“I did love you…”, the Dwarf murmured, but it sounded empty to his ears. Irrelevant.

“ _Novaer_ ” He was proven right. The steady reply with no doubt was no longer there. It had ceased to exist. Each syllable pushed him away. Nothing showed on the Elf’s face.

“ _Novaer_ ”

One step more, and then another. The words he’d wanted to say, always too late, flooded his mind. _‘I am sorry. I am so sorry…’_

“ _Dayamu Khuzan-ai menu_ ”, he managed , raising a hand in quiet farewell.

This time, there was no reply. No smile on rose-pale lips. No ray of sun reflected in gentle, ice blue eyes. No haven of green amidst the darkness, hidden away in a corner of the world.

Thorin stumbled on his way out, having to lean against the wooden door to keep himself up. The world swam around him. ‘ _But if you don’t kill them, how do you obtain their antlers?’_ , his own voice echoed in his head. His vision had gone blind. And through his tears all he could see was Thranduil’s smile, brighter than the brightest sun.

* * *

__

 

Κράτα το

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations
> 
> Laer lín matha faeren (Sindarin): Your song touches my spirit  
> Estelion allen (Sindarin): I believe/trust in you  
> Guren min gaim lín (Sindarin): My heart is in your hands  
> Meleth e-guilen (Sindarin): Love of my life  
> http://tara.istad.org/sind-phrases.htm
> 
> Leithio nin (Sindarin): Release me  
> Literal: Release me  
> /ˈlej.θi.ɔ ˈnin/  
> An ngell nîn (Sindarin): Please  
> Literal: For my joy  
> /aŋŋ ˈgɛl̡l ˈni:n/  
> http://www.arwen-undomiel.com/elvish/phrases.html
> 
> Lu akraditu (Khuzdul): “I don’t believe it”  
> lu: “not”, a general negating particle  
> akraditu: root √krd “believe, trust”; akradi “I believe”; -tu 3ms. Suffix  
> http://midgardsmal.com/category/khuzdul/
> 
> Ú-chenion (Sindarin): I don’t understand  
> http://tara.istad.org/sind-phrases.htm
> 
> Novaer (Sindarin): Farewell  
> Literal: Be good  
> /ˈnɔ.vaɛr/  
> http://www.arwen-undomiel.com/elvish/phrases.html
> 
>  
> 
> Wonderful artwork is "I love you still", by Candra, on Deviantart. No copyright infringement intended.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Him. He wished he could see him. 
> 
> TA 2768

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone ^^
> 
> This has been a long an unplanned hiatus. It was not so much due to writer's block, but to the fact that this summer has been a hectic one. I've been moving around so much that I did not have the time to properly focus on my writing. And I preferred to wait until I had the time I needed than to post once every four weeks (which does not work for me), make things sloppy or rushed, or lose sight of the characterisation and plot. 
> 
> For any of you worried people out there: I am very serious with this fic. I'm loving it, it;s my big baby and yes I will finish it. 
> 
> So, I will have settled again (in a new home, yay!) in early September, and that's when the regular updates will start again. Until then, I have a little free time to compose a couple -or as many as I can, we'll see- chapters for you. 
> 
> Thank you to those who have stayed around even after all this while, and hope you all enjoy this new 'season'of chapters XD

Despite everything, his return had been largely uneventful so far. Thorin was able to slide into his apartments unnoticed, if short of breath, nightfall covering his steps. The Elf’s guidance had been true, and the river’s steady flow had led him away from Mirkwood’s gloom until Erebor, coming into view at last, towered over the Lake and the rolling hills in the distance.

The journey home had taken him three days and two nights, tired as he had been, but at least it was territory he knew well. He had quenched his thirst and hunger with a relief he could not recall having felt before. Relief that gradually wiped away the memories of the gnarled ashen trees and the rotting ground, the screeches in the night and the fear of the pitch-black darkness, like clean water rushing through a murky stream carries away the debris, leaving no trace of what was once there.

There was only one thing that his mind could not do away with. It was the thing that would become the stuff of his dreams, the essence of his nightmares. A new part of him had been awoken, brought out of the depths of his existence, pushing to reach the surface, clawing its way out of the murky nothingness of half-ness and incompletion. Had it been left alone, it would have failed. It tried and tried, and for as long as it remained stowed in the back of his conscious, there was a sense of normality, albeit fragile. It was enough. Like his vision had sharpened around the edges but not in its centre, Thorin could see that something inexplicable in the balance of the world had shifted, but could not quite force it to show itself. Had it been left alone, it never would. Had not the wheels of this world already been set in motion as they were, had he been someone else, in another body, in another time, how different would its fate have been.

With a grunt, he threw his equipment to the floor, bow and quiver and arrows and mud-caked, half-torn coat, in a haphazard heap. His clothing and boots came flying next, and he climbed into bed with not as much as a thought for the thorough bath he was in bad need of. That is how his mentor and friends found him the next day; an arm slumped over his eyes, the duvet a mess about him, and snoring his exhaustion away well into the afternoon.

“So, it appears he lost the bet”, Balin chuckled, as Fundin stared down his Prince and student in quiet and horrified bemusement.

Dwalin huffed, nudging the dirty pile of clothes and weaponry at the floor with his boot. “I am sure Thorin could have done it. Must have been those cursed tricks of the Elves, sure enough”. The quiver rolled from the side of the heap gracelessly. It was empty save for a handful of arrows.

Balin rolled his eyes, not noticing. He had been observing Thorin’s condition before moving to stand next to his father. “No one has ever so much as seen a white stag”, he insisted. “Hunting for one was never a good idea, Elvish tricks or not”.

Dwalin crossed his arms over his already broad chest, having nothing to challenge that.

“He is lucky the King did not get informed of his absence”, Fundin cut in instead, and a sigh rumbled in his throat.  

“What about his parents?”, Balin interjected, somewhat stung at his father’s grave tone, and went about to prepare a bath for his still sound asleep friend.

“His mother is out of her mind with worry of course. His father wants to have a word with him. But I arranged the matter favorably enough for him. As for you two…” Fundin’s words trailed off as he assessed his two sons. Balin was quick to take the hint, and stopped what he was doing to look into his father’s eyes with earnest. Dwalin only hunched his shoulders more. Older and younger brother, one the shadow of the other; Balin already on the path of wisdom despite his recent ascent into adulthood, Dwalin still a feisty youngling that used his head long after he had followed his heart.

“You were not wise to allow him to venture into Mirkwood for a childish bet. You know him, you know he would have risked his life. And you telling me only after he was gone was extremely irresponsible. If things had gone ill, you would be held accountable. I do not know how he managed to come home unscathed, but by Mahal, you are grounded. Both of you”.

A groan of apprehension could not be stifled by the younger brother, but he dared not raise his gaze to his father’s furrowed brow.

“Understand this. He may be your friend, but he is above all, the Prince of Erebor. Even if he wants to overlook it. All three of you must learn your place”. He paused to spare a tender, tormented glance toward the sleeping form of Thorin. “Especially now”.

Balin’s face tilted as these words sunk in, and like a fox considering how to unlock a pen of chickens, his eyes twinkled and then deepened in thought. Why ‘especially now’? They were on the eve of the Arkenstone celebrations, the grandest feast to be held in their lifetime -and quite possibly, in their father’s lifetime too. Thror, the King, had taken the luminous stone to mean that his right to rule was divine, his line blessed by Mahal himself. The discovery had drawn the kingdom’s allies closer -and placated several not so positively posed kin and distant acquaintances. All were drawn to the novel possibilities of prosperity and wealth the Arkenstone had unlocked, eager to secure the friendship of the presently even stronger Mountain for their own purposes.

Still, it was a time of relative peace. Whatever selfish means any allies, old or new, had, could not be located but in the way of trade, in the accumulation of riches. No enemy per se, was in sight. There was to be much diplomatic hustle in the next few months, many a messenger rushing back and forth for deals to be established, broken, and then forged once more. This, though, had always been the case of late.

Was it then because this turn in the Mountain’s fate would bring countless new responsibilities on the shoulders of the King, and Thorin, as second heir in line after Thrain, his father, would have to mature faster if he was to take his place in the royal family. But the King was young enough to rule for many a year more, and his son would succeed him to the throne for the rest half of his lifetime before Thorin did. The urgency was not unfounded, but its intensity was uncalled for.

More worrisome was how Fundin was not known to fear the future, ascribe it pains and misfortune just for the pleasure of grim talk or prejudice. For him to voice such concerns so gravely, there must be something at work which was of dark nature. It was not to be taken lightly.

Thorin yawned then, and Balin’s thoughts flew overboard. The Prince stretched his limbs, heavy with sleep, disheveled beyond recognition, to freeze when three synchronized pairs of eyes turned to him.

“Good morning, my Prince Thorin”. Fundin’s honey glazed voice did not bother to hide the icy steel in its lower tones.

“Master Fundin”, the Prince stammered, feeling, even if he did not know it, much like the prey he’d been chasing some days ago. Cornered and lost to the world.

“Before you try to explain, lad, I know everything”. Thorin swallowed. “Your parents too -save for the White Stag part. Or they would have shaved your head and thrown you to the dogs, most probably”.

“The King?”, muttered the young Dwarf. He had brought himself to sit up, and presently ran a hand through his unruly mane of dark, tangled locks, in an untimely and futile effort to appear more decent. His mentor clicked his tongue in disapproval.

“Happily unaware”, he eventually conceded to reply. “You have only your luck to thank for that”.

The Prince could not contain a relieved huff of appreciation. It sounded rather gruff, wolf-like. His voice roguish from all these days of silent travelling. Fundin’s glare cut him short. He was being scolded. Eyes darting from Balin to Dwalin, he soon understood that they were in no better fate.

“You have one hour to make yourself presentable, and then your father has demanded to see you. He will impose upon you whatever punishment he sees fit. As far as I am concerned, you – and your young hot-headed friend-”, Dwalin frowned deeper at this, “are not permitted to train with bow and arrow, or in the open until the celebrations have finished. You will study the laws and customs of our people instead, during that time. If you are to take your place in this formal even as Prince, I believe you should be acquainted with all the necessary procedures immaculately. And…”, the old Dwarf raised his index imperiously, a teacher ordering about ill-behaving Dwarflings. “You will be assigned as royal ambassador to the company of Mirkwood Elves arriving in two weeks. Perhaps if you knew your allies better, you would have avoided to act so rashly, and challenge the sacred creatures of the peoples who are much needed to safeguard the prosperity of your future kingdom.”

Thorin swallowed audibly, lowering his otherwise proud head in recognition of the greater authority before him. “Yes, Master Fundin”. He could almost hear Dwalin seething as he stood beside the foot of his bed.

“Oh, Balin”, Fundin added, as if on a whim. “You will be the Prince’s supervisor in his studies. Make sure his knowledge of the necessary Elven and Dwarven customs is adequate. You would not allow your Prince to be embarrassed during such an important event, would you?”.

Balin’s mouth opened and closed a few times, like a fish out of the water. His ingenuity and confident brightness had dimmed to humble acceptance in front of his father’s stone will. The fox was a mere pup again, fumbling about in its attempts to walk.

Fundin, satisfied he had solved the problem much as a builder forces his way across the river by turning it into a road, clapped his hands, face lifting into an expression of excitement. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must oversee the meeting for the entertainment program”. Yet his smile never reached his eyes, his lips were curled a little less, a little too painfully. Perhaps it was his older son’s idea, that he was trying too hard to appear merry to hide his previous slip-up of worry. As if he had never wanted them to know.

 

 

Nearly an hour later, the three youngsters were making their way to the quarters of Thrain and his wife. Thorin, clean and presentable enough -his hair remaining untamed, if washed-, was walking in the middle, flanked closely by Balin, to his left, and Dwalin, to his right.

Of the three, Dwalin had the heaviest step, Balin the most surefooted, and Thorin the most daring stride. Not arrogant, as that of a stag with the first antlers of prime upon his head. Neither naïve in its enthusiasm, as that of a fiery-tempered ram. But steady and brave, while never settling, with the budding calm confidence and regal possessiveness of space of the wolf that shall grow to become leader of its pack.

The walls to their left and right were fashioned of green marble, with veins of white coursing through it, riverlike. It was a tunnel of stone, leading up toward the outer side of the Mountain, that overlooking the city of Dale, and, further away, the glinting, sky-reflecting Esgaroth. Contrary to Thror, Thrain had eschewed the confines of the deepest part of Erebor, and chosen for his wife and family the royal chambers that opened to the clean mountain air. It had not been an easy, nor uncontested choice.

Thorin was finishing the retelling of his adventure for the third time, but his friends’ questions persisted.

“I cannot understand how it escaped you, with an arrow lodged in its leg”, Dwalin exclaimed for the tenth time. Thorin rolled his eyes. “I told you. It was fast, faster than any creature you have ever seen or followed. And I was weary and hungry and lost”. The younger Dwarf was still not satisfied. There were times it seemed like the entirety of his faith in the world rested upon his awe for Thorin’s charisma and talent with weapons and crafts. Thorin failing was not an option in his mind.

Balin was more skeptical. “If it escaped, then it is possible that the Elves found it. With your arrow in its wounded leg. That could be a potential source of trouble”, he mused. Thorin rolled his eyes again. “No Elf emissary will see me with my bow and arrows as long as they are here. They cannot possibly identify me from a single shaft”.

_Except for one Elf. One Elf could. And he had seen much more than his arrow in the helpless animal’s wound. He had seen Thorin himself, talked to him. Heard him speak in the secret Khuzdul._

Only then did the foolishness of his acts dawn upon the Prince. If that one mystical Elf was in the company of the Elven King, and if that one mystical Elf was not, after all, as tolerant as he had acted that day… Even if he had not changed his mind about giving Thorin away, one wrong word, one glance, and they could easily be betrayed. The White Stag was sacred to the Elves, to lengths unfathomable by his people. The possibility that this incident could stand in the way of the continuation of a smooth alliance and the achievement of closer ties between his people and the Mirkwood Elves seemed very real to him. And Fundin had appointed him royal ambassador between his line and the company of the Elven King, which made his chances of getting away with this even more grim.

“Thorin? What is it?”

His was frowning deeply enough for deep vertical ridges to appear between his eyebrows and the start of the bridge of his nose, mind chased astray by his panicking thoughts.

“It’s nothing, Balin”, he said and patted his friend’s shoulder. “Was just wondering and dreading about what awaits us”.

“Studying the Elves, you mean?”, tried the other, a small smile reluctantly taking shape across his lips. It was cut off by the muffled shouts that echoed in the space around them.

The stone tunnel had finally reached an evened-out platoon. The chambers of Thorin’s parents and siblinds, positioned at the Mountain’s face, lay behind an ornately carved oaken door a few steps ahead of them. For being so close to the end of Erebor’s labyrinth, this cubicle of walls was one of its darkest corners, lighted only by torches hung from the walls at each side of it.

Balin and Dwalin halted first, leaving Thorin to cover a few more yards alone. Two Guards were at the door, bearing the gold armor of the King’s entourage. Clamor could be heard from inside the chambers, as the voices continued to rage against each other. The Prince turned around to meet the gaze of the two brothers. Dwalin had once again crossed his arms over his chest, feet planted squarely, a ram that stubbornly refuses to move in front of a new obstacle until it takes it all in. Balin shook his head, shoulders raised. His eyes had crinkled about the edges in confusion.

Thorin nodded and swiftly walked towards the Guards. They hesitated for some heartbeats, shifting their weight to the other foot, hefting the weight of their lances in their palms, glancing at each other through the slits in their headgear; but resolved to part respectfully for him to pass through the door.

“I will not allow this!”, his Grandfather’s voice was yelling. It reverberated in the small hall he was in, crowding his ears. The Dwarven Prince hastily took refuge against the wall that opened in its middle to the main chamber, lest he be seen. Concealed in the shadows, he pressed his back against the coarse rock, bracing himself for the fight that took place behind him. 

“You, and Fundin, always scheming behind my back. What is next, _son_? You’d steal my heir away from me?”

“Father, it is in the interest of our people”, Thráin insisted, though his mellowly raspy voice was easily drowned out by Thror’s roaring one.

“It would be in the interest of our people if you had turned out to be useful”.

Thorin inhaled icy air in the silence that ensued.

“For how long will I have to face this humiliation at your hands for something that is beyond anyone’s control- much less mine?”, whispered Thráin throatily.

“It was always yours to control. You have just been pathetic all your life. I have no idea why I allowed that marriage-”

“You would not dare-”

“I had every right to! My son, my own son, my flesh and blood, first heir to the line of Durin, to betray me so?”

“How have I betrayed you, Father?”, rose Thráin’s voice once more. The indignation in it, and the pain, cut through Thorin like a knife.

“My own son, _Izgil_? My own son, not _Ibriz_! My own son?! An _Izgil_ can never be King!”

“She is my One-”

“And she took away your right to rule”

Thorin’s Father was panting hard. Thorin could imagine him. Fists clenched, jaw working, eyes trembling. Thráin’s anger was never hot. It was wet, heart-wrenching, tired. As if his own anger hurt him.

“You could have found someone else. You could have fought to prove your worth to me, to your line, fix this mistake in you. But no. You were a coward, and decided to choose your comfort over your Kingdom’s needs”, continued Thror, with amplified vehemence.

“That is not true and you know it”, gasped Thráin.

“Is it not?”, mocked the King’s voice. “The only authority you recognize is her, the only loyalty of yours is to her. If it were for you to choose, you’d choose her over Erebor, _and you know it_ ”

“No… It is not a choice, I don’t have to choose!”

“You _do choose_. Every day. Like you choose to be weak. All your kind are. You should better hope your son has not inherited this abomination of yours”

“Father, don’t bring my Son into this! Don’t desecrate what you don’t understand-”

“Silence! I will not tolerate _my heir_ near those creatures.  I will not tolerate him studying their abhorrent ideas. At least for us, this… _disease,_ is contained. For them it is everyday business. I do not want my heir to have anything to do with it. He has had enough dealings with your kind, just by being your child. I will not have any more negative influence near him. Am I understood?”

Beaten, Thráin could only nod in agreement. His head, once held proud like his Son’s, now lowered miserably. Thror, made his way to the door in victorious strides. Thorin crouched in the shadows even more, as his Grandfather passed so close to him. Luckily the King’s white head was held so high that he could not notice.

When the wood closed shut behind the King, Thorin found that it was much easier to breathe, even though he felt that he did not want to. As if his Grandfather’s presence had poisoned the air. Stomach filled with bile and a sickening empty feeling, he numbly entered the main chamber, an intruder in his own family home.

“Father”, he called gently in Khuzdul. Thráin had slumped onto a chair, face in his hands. The older Dwarf appeared completely immobile, save for the almost imperceptible sobs that shook his spine.

“My Son”, murmured Thráin in soft surprise, straightening and turning his head towards the sound of his child’s voice. “When did you come in? I didn’t hear you”. He rubbed his eyes with his rough hands in a pretentiously absentminded motion, hoping his Son would not notice, and poured more cheer than he could feel into his voice. “I…” Thorin’s low-cast gaze and sudden awkwardness, as he wringed his hands behind his back, made his face fall once more.

“Father…” the young Dwarf repeated eventually, kneeling in front of Thráin’s chair so that their eye levels could be closer.  “I’m so sorry…” He regretted it the moment the words had flown from his lips.

It took some moments for Thráin to react. He reached to stroke his Son’s lush dark mane and pull his head in his lap, bending to kiss the top of the sweet-scented head of the child he adored. “Do not be, my boy’”. And then, quietly, “He is right… He is right…”

It sounded more as if he were talking to himself than to Thorin, so the Prince stayed quiet despite his curiosity, burrowing his face more into the fabric of his Father’s tunic, drawn as he was into the older Dwarf’s embrace as if he were a Dwarfling again.

They stayed like this for some time, Father and Son, before Thorin remembered the talk his Father wanted to have with him -and his punishment. The first question in his mind concerned neither of these directly, though in essence, would have a part in determining any outcome.

“Where is Mother?”

Thráin’s tender grip on him loosened and he slowly let go of his Son, who rose to take his place on a chair beside him.

“She is tending to the preparations in the dining hall”, Thráin said, gaze faraway as he brought a loosely clenched fist to rest his cheek upon.

It took a while for Thorin to speak again, and his did so with trepidation, like treading on cracking ice. “You… you wanted to talk to me? Fundin said you… You know about what I did”

At first it did not seem to work in waking his Father from his musings.

“About me… Leaving for Mirkwood… Alone…”, The Prince tried again.

Thrain turned to face him then, a surrendered look in his eyes. “My Son, what is there to tell you? You know what your place and duties are. You have a proud and stubborn heart. But you cannot let that endanger your life. Or your future as K- as heir in the line of Durin. When you are responsible for your people, Thorin, you have to listen to your head and to them first. Don’t abandon your heart. But it can wait”.

The Prince nodded. “And my… punishment?”

“As far as I know, Fundin already bestowed one upon you”

“With which Grandfather does not agree”, Thorin reminded him reluctantly. On the one hand, he would have been relieved to stay away from the Elves as much as possible, lest his role in the incident with the Stag be somehow discovered. On the other, something tugged at him at the thought of having to stay even out of the sight of the Elves. The one in the forest was the first one he’d seen in his life, but if all of them were as ethereal as him, with magic bristling as a shimmering veil about them, then he did wish to see them, and accompany them and learn for and from them. The image of the stranger’s smile flashed behind his eyelids. And there it was. The first breath of fresh air after the depths -though still he did not know it. Him. He wished he could see _him_.

Thráin’s eyes were trained on him. “Perhaps… Though the King is… A bit out of sorts lately. The pressure, the responsibilities… They have heightened his anxiety, you understand. And he cares about you, of course. He is overprotective. You know how he is. So…”. The Prince acknowledged this with a low hum, feeling like a child that was led away from an arrangement of breath-taking toys.

“But…”, said his Father then, and Thorin’s dark blue eyes of sapphire glistened, shooting upwards to Thráin’s dark orbs.  Narrowing his eyes, the Dwarf raised a hand to his Son’s dark head once more, stroking down the wild mane slowly, thoughtfully, watching the strands fall through his fingers as if he was touching them for the first time.  

“I can speak to him again, when he is in a better mood”, Thráin said at last. “I can explain…”, the older Dwarf’s tone took on a mischievous note, “And I am sure he will understand the need for you to know your… ‘enemy’ better now that you appear ‘innocent’ and ‘harmless’ to their eyes… Even if you do not study them. Hmm?”

The Prince opened his mouth to speak. He had not mentioned the punishment in hopes that it be maintained. He would want to see the Elves up close again, even if he now had reasons to dread it too; but had voiced none of this out loud. He couldn’t even if he wished to, for his parents did not -and could not- know about the bet, and the Stag. Thráin s insistence, especially after such a devastating fight with the disagreeing King, was then as perplexing to him as was the quickened beating of his own heart. As if he’d been discovered, somehow, for something no one knew he’d done -or rather, for something he had not done yet.

“It is settled then”, his Father declared, before he could have time to object. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Neo-Khuzdul from the dictionary of the Dwarrow Scholar:  
> moon (bright silver-coloured one) [Adjectival Derived Noun (Intensifier) (vCCvC) / SINGULAR - Absolute State ] [ZGL] [ɪzɡɪl] izgil 
> 
> sun (bright red one) [Adjectival Derived Noun (Intensifier) (vCCvC) / SINGULAR - Absolute State ] [BRZ] [ɪbrɪz] ibriz 
> 
> TA 2768: year 2768 of the Third Age. You have seen this before, but just for the sake of clarity: we are (since at this time of events in the fic, 2768 is slowly nearing its end), a little less than one year and a half before Smaug's attack on Erebor. 
> 
> Thorin's age: Thorin, at this point in the fic is 22 years old.  
> To put this in persepctive (in my view of things): Hobbits live for fewer years than the Dwarves do, and they are seen as adults after they've reached their 30s. So, the Dwarves may mature much faster, but I thought it made sense, if, until the age of 40 or so, they are not fully functioning members of Dwarven society (e.g they cannot marry yet, or do not have complete say over their property and their parents are still to a degree responsible for them, they cannot receive full duties alone, will not be sent to battle if there is a choice, etc.). So, Thorin, in this light, is very very young. Not so much physically, as with regards to how much he has yet to learn and how innocent he still is in Dwarven society issues etc. 
> 
> Balin and Dwalin's age: In the canon (books), those two are way younger than Thorin. But, I wanted Thorin to have some close companions in this fic, and did not feel that creating OCs would help me move in the right direction (nothing against OCs, just not my thing to do, usually, and it does not really help me with this fic). So, I decided to play around with their age a bit, kind of following the movie logic. So, here, Balin is in his early 40s, and Dwalin is younger than Thorin (18 years old). 
> 
> Frerin and Dis: We might as well discuss those now too, even though they will appear a bit later. Frerin is now 15-16 years old, and little Dis 8-9 years old. 
> 
> Last but not least: I suspect that the 'Sun and Moon' business may still seem obscure/complicated/confusing, especially since here I introduced a glimpse into the Dwarven understanding of things. If that is indeed the case for any of my readers: I assure you that things are about to get much clearer in the next chapters (and if there are still questions when major things are explained later, I will be happy to answer them). But I wouldn't want to give out any spoilers until then. So, rest assured in knowing that I know perfectly well where I am headed with all this confusion (and keep your fingers crossed that I will manage to pull all this through XD ) 
> 
> Lastly, a big and warm thank you to everone leaving kudos and comments. Much appreciated (and they help keep me motivated and inspired)!! ^^


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